Genuine Need
by ellathedreamer
Summary: Being rich, smart, & pretty doesn't make being a mutant any easier. While juggling dual roles as the Avenging Angel & an average college kid, Warren Worthington III discovers that despite his best efforts, he can't keep living life as a recluse. AngelOFC.
1. A quick author's note

**A/N:** Hey there. I'm Ella, and I'm new to X-fic, though I've been writing fanfic for other fandoms for several years now. I wouldn't say I'm a HUGE X-Men fan, having never read the comics, but I did watch the cartoons some when I was younger, and I'm a pretty big fan of the movies. Well, most of them. :P

Anyway, I've had a long, deep-seeded thing for men with wings, and seeing Angel (in all his glorious two-and-a-half minutes of screen time) in X3 suddenly motivated me to start reading fanfic featuring him. Now, I'll just tell you all right up front that I'm a shameless fan of romance in fan fiction, as long as it's well-written. But I was pretty shocked to see the complete lack of Angel-centric fic out there in comparison to other characters. I mean, c'mon, his character is just ripe for it. Rich, pretty, spoiled, more ripped than Jesus, and he actually has a _beautiful_ mutation. Helloooo? Haha.

So that brings me here. I'm writing this story to A) satisfy my own craving for an Angel romance fic, and B) fulfill a void. :) And for all you other shameless romantics out there, I hope you like it. Which is not to say that the entire story is going to focus on that relationship (it isn't, not by far), but it's going to be an integral part of Angel's issues.

**Some notes about this particular story:** it's PG-13 for the most part, but may delve into R territory, I'm not sure. If it does, I'll provide a warning at the beginning of that particular chapter.

I'm posting this under the 'Movie' subcategory, even though this Angel isn't really the movie Angel. But I figured, hey, if the movies can pick and choose what characteristics they want to use (and make up some of their own) for their characters, then why can't I? So there you have it. :) Also, this will be very much an Angel-centric story. I haven't decided if any other X-Men will appear in it, but if they do, they won't have huge roles. In my fanfics, I generally take one character and run with him/her.

The prologue has a little bit of a different tone to it that the actual chapters will – this is because I'm using the prologue as a way to set up Angel's background, so it's told in a series of blurbs and moves very quickly through the teenage years of his life. The chapters will be in the present and more detailed. They will also alternate between Angel's POV and my original character's POV. At least, that's the plan at the moment. Haha.

Anyway, happy reading! I haven't posted anything on here in years (not since waaaay back when they used to allow real-person fic), so forgive me if I muck up any formats when I post. I'll learn. :)


	2. Prologue

**Genuine Need: Prologue**

Life as I knew it ended at the age of sixteen.

Not in the truest sense, that notion of absolute finality – death, if you will – but there have been many times when I've thought it might as well have. For all intents and purposes, my supposed 'sweet sixteen' became equivalent life sentence without parole – no way out. Theoretically speaking, it was over. Finished.

Perhaps I'm being melodramatic. Soppy. Angsty, even. And it wouldn't be the first time I've been accused of such – when I still lived at home during school vacations, late in my teenage years, my mother was fond of pointing out the frivolous nature of my darker moods, often wondering in her sweetly chiding way how someone blessed with so much could act as though the entire world was against him.

But then again… she never had to learn to preen her own body, either.

**xxxxx**

I grew up in New York, the dutiful son of Warren Jr. and Katherine Worthington, and the only heir to the thriving steel company my grandfather began back in 1955, Worthington Industries. From an early age, I understood that I'd one day be taking my father's place as CEO. With my future firmly in place, I shrugged off any thoughts of true independence and let my parents groom me into a proper businessman – a mix of education, street savvy, social graces, and naturally, charm. From my father, I inherited a quick wit, a built-in bullshit radar, and baby blue eyes. From my mother, an appreciation for classical music, an excellent memory, and thick, blonde curls.

Being born into a family of billionaires sounds like every person's dream, but truthfully, I never thought much of it. Money was never an issue, for better or worse. My parents certainly spared no expense on our lifestyle, but they weren't overly lavish types, and never threw their money away on frivolous things, like some fancy gadget of the week or numerous million-dollar vacation homes that went unused. They were practical in their spending, or at least as practical as billionaires can be. And generous. Whenever they felt I was becoming a bit too spoiled for my own good, they brought me down to earth with an earnest lecture on the evils and problems of loving money just a little too much.

"Ayn Rand said that _money is only a tool_, Warren," my father told me on more than one occasion. He was a fan of Rand, often spouting off similar quotes from _Atlas Shrugged_. I'd tried to read the book once, at his persistence, and had fallen asleep within minutes. "_It will take you wherever you wish, but it won't replace you as the driver_."

"Remember that not everyone is as fortunate as you," was always my mother's chiming response to that comment, which usually led to a separate short sermon on the altruistic benefits of philanthropy. "And while there's no shame in enjoying what you've been given, we also have a responsibility to help others in genuine need."

_A responsibility to help others in genuine need._ Little did I know how literal that advice would become, years down the road.

**xxxxx**

Private school isn't nearly as bad as it sounds. The mere name conjures up a variety of unsavory images, from dull, bland school uniforms to strict codes of conduct and curfews. Separation of the sexes. Long, tedious hours in the library, studying for final exams.

But AllCott? Nothing like I'd expected. My parents sent me there when I turned fourteen, mainly at my father's insistence. He'd attended private school in his youth, and often touted the inarguable benefits of paid education. Smaller classes. Closer relationships with the instructors. Discipline. A well-rounded, varied curriculum. The list went on and on. "Nothing but the best for _my_ son," he was fond of saying.

The institute itself had a steep price tag attached -- $50,000 a year for tuition alone – and so we all came from families of wealth, naturally. We were _all_ expected to be groomed into America's future; into the businessmen, lawyers, and doctors of the next generation. Our parents had pushed us, watched us, nurtured us, handing over every last possible opportunity over the years to ensure our future success. Image was everything; perfection the status quo. Failure, regardless of what form it came in, simply wasn't an option.

My first two years at Allen Cottsen Academy (AllCott, as we affectionately called it) went smoothly. I made friends quickly, and soon established a certain 'group' to hang out with. Dated plenty of pretty girls, slept with a few, even fell in love once. On paper, those first two years were a college recruiter's dream: straight A's. Top of the class in geometry, calculus, and physics. Numerous leadership awards. Beta Club. Honor Society. I ran cross-country (second place, state championship my sophomore year), played tennis, and even spent a year in the chorus before I decided singing showtunes wasn't my style. To the average observer, I seemed destined for greatness, following in the well-rounded footsteps of my father, Warren Jr.

However, that was before my own body decided to turn against me. Fate had other plans for Worthington the third, it seemed.

**xxxxx**

What kid _doesn't_ look forward to their sixteenth birthday? For most, it represents a major step towards adulthood, namely in the form of a driver's license and personal transportation. For me, the question wasn't whether I'd be getting a car for my birthday – it was what _kind_ I'd be getting. The answer? A slick, gleaming black Maserati Spyder; sex on wheels.

I remember that particular day with fondness and precise detail. The afternoon had been spent with close friends; Jakob, Michael, Cameron and I had gone out to the lake and skimmed across the clear water on rented JetSkis, racing each other and laughing until the sun began to crisp our skin. Later in the day, my parents came into town for a formal family celebration. I was given the car immediately upon their arrival – my parents have never been ones for waiting around; they always liked to get straight to the point. Down to business, if you will.

My father and I took a cruise around campus, letting the wind whip through our hair and smiling smugly at the incredulous, jealous stares from my classmates. Afterwards, they took me out for dinner – authentic Italian at Giuseppe's. I gorged myself on Penne Puttanesca and slice after slice of grissino rubata with olive oil, laughing as my mother wondered aloud how I could stay so lean and trim with such an enormous appetite.

"Flawless genetics," I told her with a cunning smile, and she just laughed.

After dinner and dessert, they'd taken me back to my dorm. My father had bidden me farewell with a firm businessman's handshake, while my mother smothered me with kisses and proclamations that her "beautiful little boy" was blossoming into a man. I leaned against my newly acquired Maserati and waved an enthusiastic goodbye as their taillights disappeared into the horizon, waiting until they were out of sight to pull out my phone.

My girlfriend and aforementioned love, Candy, came over after that at my request. Jakob had graciously found somewhere to hide for the night, leaving our room empty, and Candy and I spent the rest of the evening celebrating my sweet sixteenth by christening my bed, _his_ bed, the cherry armoire, and the small sitting ledge in the shower. We'd tumbled back to my mattress and begun to fall asleep after that, still wet. Tangled together and naked; her soft, ample breasts pressed tightly against my still-heaving chest. I'd drowsily patted her damp blonde hair as she snored, smiling to myself, lost in thought.

The whole day couldn't have been more perfect.

**xxxxx**

You know those peculiar itches you get, deep under the furthest layers of your epidermis? The kind you can't quite scratch? The kind that make you simply grind your teeth and wait it out?

I woke up at 3:34AM that night. We'd fallen asleep relatively early for a weekend night – roughly one o'clock or so – and normally, I'd snooze soundly until ten o'clock the following morning if left undisturbed. But I squirmed around on the bed, feeling a ticklish niggling in my shoulder blades, rolling over and frantically reaching back to scratch the offending skin. I woke Candy up with my grunts of irritation and whispered curses.

"Baby, what's wrong?" she murmured sleepily, rolling onto her side and stretching her limbs in a languid fashion. Normally, I would have gladly taken the opportunity to ogle her naked body, but the tickling in my back was beginning to feel like fire.

"My back itches," I muttered through gritted teeth. "Feels like I rolled around in poison ivy…"

"Let me scratch it," she said. I immediately flipped over, and sighed loudly with relief when I felt her long nails raking across the skin.

"God, that feels fucking great," I mumbled into my pillow. She chuckled, scooting a little closer to me in bed, so that our legs were grazing together.

Several minutes went by, and then Candy stopped. "There," she said. "All better?"

But it wasn't. I twitched, cringing, as my source of relief disappeared and the itching intensified. "Keep going," I begged, suddenly realizing for the first time that perhaps something wasn't quite right with everything back there. "Just a little more…"

"Jeez, Warren," she said. Nevertheless, I whispered my thanks when she resumed scratching. At my insistence, she grated faster, harder. I closed my eyes, struggling to think about something else, something soothing and cold. Icy, frothy waterfalls. Graeter's double mint chip. Aloe Vera gel.

I heard a gasp, and Candy stopped again. "What?" I asked, alarmed for two reasons: one, that she'd quit and my back was effectively on fire once more, and two, because of the panicked tone in her voice. "What!"

She didn't answer at first, but instead flipped on the bedside lamp. Before I could roll over and ask what the hell was going on, she screamed. "Warren, you're _bleeding_!"

"What?" I leapt up, casting a glance at her as I flew to my feet. Her eyes were wide as she held up her hands, both smeared pinkish-red with blood. The bedsheets had several small, dark stains where we'd been laying. I felt my jaw drop as I automatically reached my arm back, feeling of the spots she'd scratched. When I retracted my hand, it, too, was tinged pink.

"I didn't – I wasn't scratching that hard!" she cried out. I was barely listening to her as I ran into the bathroom, throwing on the light, leaving faint, bloody fingerprint stains on the wall and the white fixture switch. "I just suddenly, God, my hands felt all wet and then…" she trailed off when I didn't respond.

I stood with my back to the mirror, struggling to see over my shoulder. The itching had escalated into something much more painful, a feeling similar to sharp cramps, but a little more intense than that; indescribable. _Fuck_. I started throwing open the cabinets and drawers, searching for another mirror. I found a small one in the bottom left drawer, the one Jakob used when he was aiming for a close shave, and held it up.

The blood, which had apparently started as a slow seeping, was beginning to flow freely by now, tiny rivulets of red forming thin trails down my back. It was difficult to tell where it was coming from, exactly, though it appeared, by the dark rivers running parallel to my spine, to be leaking from two separate wounds. She's _right, she wasn't scratching **that** hard,_ I thought, panic rising progressively in my chest. The mirror in my hand began to shake, and I set it down, steadying myself against the sink. Glancing down at my feet, I saw that thick, fat drops were beginning to drip onto the floor. Oh, God.

"Warren?" Candy's voice called to me; she was standing close to the door, but probably afraid to come in. "Warren, my God… are you okay? I didn't mean to…"

I swallowed. "Will you get me some towels?" I asked. "Look in the closet…"

She obliged, quietly coming into the bathroom, eyes downcast, holding out the fluffy towels. I quickly pushed her out and threw the door closed before she saw too much of the damage – she didn't have a particularly strong stomach, and I knew that the sight of blood all over me, the floor, and the wall might possibly upset her. It sure as hell was upsetting _me_. "Just a second," I told her through the closed door. "Just let me get this cleaned up, okay?"

"Do you need me to help?" Her offer was sweet, but I could tell by her weak tone that she was praying I would decline.

"No," I said, a little more harshly than intended. "Just hang on…" I doubled over when another spasm hit, biting my lip to keep from crying out. I managed to throw one of the towels into the floor when I finally straightened up, letting it catch the red waterfall rolling down my back. With another, I reached back and frantically wiped at the gashes, sopping up as much as I could.

Within minutes, the towel was almost completely damp. Cursing, I threw it into the shower stall. Glancing down, I stared at the specks of red on the towel I'd thrown in the floor, feeling a little dizzy and nauseous myself. _What is wrong with me? What the hell is going on? Maybe we should go to the emergency room… _

A searing heat ripped through both shoulder blades just then, and I sank to the floor, curling up and resting my face in my palms. It felt like I was being stabbed, like the skin was slowly being ripped from my bones. Biting back a sob, I reached my hands back again, bare this time, to feel and prod at the wounds. I almost screamed when my fingers met up with the ridges of something dense and hard. No, not _some_thing. _Two_ things.

Every muscle in my body went rigid when it dawned on me that my skin wasn't broken and bleeding because of an outside source – Candy's nails – but from some alien growth coming from _within_.

**xxxxx**

Puberty brings its own set of problems to each individual as he or she is growing up, but a lot of issues are universal. Some kids gain weight, or shoot up six inches too fast, or get acne. Girls grow delicious curves, acquiring breasts and hips; boys' voices crack and eventually deepen, and hair begins to sprout up in new and exciting places. Thanks to the onset of hormones, mood swings are inevitable, as is the newly acquired sensations of sexual desire and the yearning to be independent.

For mutants, I'd learn, puberty also brought changes _outside_ the expected. We'd briefly studied physical mutations in anatomy, discussing certain bizarre real-life case studies, like a girl who'd grown scales and a lizard tail, and a boy who'd developed gills and could breathe underwater. Otherwise normal kids who'd somehow turned into carnival freaks. I'd stared and gawked at the pictures, too, just like everyone else in class; shivering and commenting on how disgusting those people had become.

But in those early morning hours after my sixteenth birthday, the type of 'unexpected changes' I'd previously only read about began to manifest at an alarming rate. As soon as I'd run my fingertips over those sharp protrusions, I'd known with an uncanny certainty that they were not the result of some mishap – not an accidental broken bone protruding or something of the like, as little sense as that made anyway – but they were _supposed_ to be there, as part of my skeletal structure. It took surprisingly little time for me to realize that I was, in fact, becoming a freak. Another case study, just like the ones from anatomy – a stumble of nature's intended design.

Going to the hospital had been out of the question. Telling Candy, also, had been out of the question – so I resolved to find some way to get her to leave. Panicking, I angrily yelled at her through the walls without explanation, blaming her for my scratched-up back. I told her to get out, cursed and shouted, ignoring her protests and pleads for me to open the door. She'd eventually given up, bewildered and frightened, slamming the dorm room door on her way out. I worried that she might call someone else to check on me, or perhaps even the campus EMTs, but no one ever came. A small stroke of luck, if you could call it that.

Once I was entirely alone, I curled up on the floor of the shower stall to catch the blood, and let the tears flow freely down my cheeks as the bony growths in my back steadily sprouted ever-longer. I passed out at some point – the pain simply became too much to bear – and when I awoke the following afternoon, stiff, sore and sticky, I was no longer human.

Because humans, you see, don't have _wings_.

The first time I looked in the mirror and saw the bloodied, gangly structure of the wings, I got physically sick, emptying the previous night's pasta into the toilet; crying out in pain as the act of retching tore at the already-aching muscles of my back and shoulders. Resting my head on the seat, I'd fought back more tears, wondering what the fuck I'd done to deserve this punishment. I'd heard about mutants secondhand, mainly from class discussions, but had never come across one in person during my sheltered life… they'd always seemed a part of some other existence, some parallel universe. Someone else's problem. Not mine…

I didn't know what to do.

**xxxxx**

At first, my new appendages were bare and ugly, looking more like the limbs of dead, dormant trees than the fluffy, white wonders they eventually became. A thick, fleshy skin had formed over the bones during my unconsciousness, the same color as the rest of my body, and it was equally as sensitive to the touch. And I could _move _them – it didn't even require concentration, the act itself felt as natural as when I moved my wrist, or knee, or thumb. I stood in front of the mirror, watching with awe and disgust as the limbs stretched out and in, retracting and folding with surprising ease.

My initial thought had been to run – grab as many belongings as I could, cram them into my biggest suitcase and take off in my new Spyder and head for oblivion. I'd immediately nixed that idea, however – to be honest, in this day and age I knew that it was virtually impossible to disappear off the face of the earth. I had no cash on me, and though I could easily take some out of the bank or use my credit cards, those were too obviously traceable. I could probably hide out for awhile, sure, but eventually I'd be discovered one way or another. And then…

No, running away wouldn't work. But I had to come up with _something, _some plan of action to hide. And quickly. Jakob would be coming back to the room at some point, probably very soon, and fear took over as I realized I needed to get rid of any and all evidence of last night's incident. I took a shower, scrubbing clean every inch of my skin, new and old. Clothes were a more difficult matter – throwing on a pair of jeans was easy enough, but finding a shirt to wear proved much more difficult. The wing structure was flexible, but only to a point. I folded them as tightly to my back as I could manage – an incredibly odd feeling, that – and attempted putting on the biggest t-shirt I could find over it all. Turning sideways in the mirror, I grimaced.

No dice, unless I was planning to try out for a part in _The Hunchback of Notre Dame_.

Tearing the shirt off, I started to despair until I remembered the stash of Ace bandages Jakob kept in his bottom drawer – he'd had surgery on his ACL two years before, and always made sure to wrap up his knee before working out. I grabbed four bandages from the drawer. Watching myself in the mirror once more, I strapped the wings tightly against my back, wrapping the bandages tightly around my torso, over and over and over.

It worked, for the most part. This time when I put the baggy shirt on, there was only a slight, noticeable curve. It would serve for the time being.

"All right," I muttered, watching my lips move in the mirror. "Let's get this shit cleaned up."

The bathroom was first, as it required the most work. I scrubbed down the shower, the floor, and the walls where my hands had smeared blood. I grabbed the towels and yanked the sheets from my bed, shoving them into a black plastic garbage bag and throwing it in the dumpster outside. The exertion of cleaning exhausted me – no surprise, considering how much blood I'd lost – so when I came back to the room, I threw myself down on my freshly made bed, closing my eyes and breathing hard. I felt numb. Disoriented.

The phone rang, but I didn't bother to pick it up. The answering machine did the honor for me.

"Warren, honey, this is your mother." I froze, realizing that I hadn't yet even _thought_ about my parents or their potential reactions to their only son's transformation. I caught my breath, listening intently. "I lost one of the earrings I was wearing last night, and I thought maybe it came off inside the Spyder and I didn't realize it… I've looked _everywhere_ and it's nowhere to be found. So when you get a chance, go out and check around in that hot little car of yours, okay?" Her tone was light, sweet. I smiled in spite of myself, gripped with the sudden desire to be a child again, safe and normal, lying in her lap as she stroked my hair and told me stories about growing up in Centreport. "But I've got to jet, your father and I have a business dinner in Manhattan I need to get ready for. Call me when you get a chance. I love you."

"Love you, too," I whispered to the empty room as the machine clicked off. How odd, that less than 24 hours ago I'd been laughing and talking and eating with her and my father, feeling invincible; young and carefree. I thought about my mother, how distraught she would be that her 'beautiful little boy' had become a monster instead of a man. And my father…

'_We're proud of you, Warren,'_ he'd said to me before leaving last night. '_Keep it up, son.' _I wondered if he would continue to be so proud if he knew he'd sired a mutant child.

_Or_, I thought suddenly, for _that matter, if his business partners and investors knew… or the press…_

No. No, that couldn't happen. I was all alone in this, I understood. No one could know, for my benefit _and_ theirs. _No one._

**xxxxx**

My carefully cocooned life unraveled with remarkable speed. I didn't allow myself time to mourn, or cry, or even get angry – I _couldn't_, not with the world continuing on around me as if nothing had changed. Terrified to allow anyone to see what an abomination I'd become, I called and demanded a single room (with a little 'coaxing' of the dean, in the form of a massive monetary compensation), moving into it just two days after The Incident. My mother was shocked when I first told her, but I'd reassured her and my father both that I simply needed peace and quiet for my studies.

Over the next few weeks, the wings continued to shoot outward, eventually reaching roughly eight feet each (near as I could tell, from my best attempts to measure); the plumage slowly grew in during this time, as well. Beginning with tiny, wispy baby down, the wings filled out until they were covered with thousands of snow-white feathers in varying lengths and thicknesses, from the very seam where old skin joined with new all the way to the furthest tip.

Despite their massive size, they were amazingly flexible, once they'd completely developed. I found that the Ace bandage trick kept them flat enough against my back, and once they grew longer I began tucking the feathered part into the back of my pants. My wardrobe eventually consisted only of T-shirts and jeans, as they were the only things I was comfortable wearing when I had to go out in public. Winters were the easiest time – especially since the trench coat my father had bought me for Christmas two years before became an everyday staple of my ensemble.

Needless to say, the relationships I'd cultivated at AllCott didn't so much end as they came to a screeching halt. Jakob was angry and confused when I told him I was getting my own room, but I shrugged him off and said I needed my personal space. I broke up with Candy over the phone, flatly refusing to give her a reasonable explanation other than I just didn't love her anymore (the hardest lie I had to tell during this ordeal). I shunned the other guys when they called or stopped by. And eventually, they'd had enough. The clique I'd so easily become a part of gave up and moved on without me.

I stopped speaking up in class, overwhelmed with the desire to suddenly become invisible. Sports was an impossibility, not only because of the extra baggage on my back, but because community showers were unavoidable. I became a recluse, spending all my time indoors, either in my room or the library. My collection of books, CDs and DVDs became nearly astronomical – not surprising, as they became my sole means of entertainment.

At first, my classmates were angry; the teachers confused. They wanted answers that I wouldn't – _couldn't_ – give. I was sent to the school counselor for depression screening; she even called my parents to express her concern, though I managed to reassure them once again by explaining my new priorities (read: education) took precedence over social events. My parents reluctantly accepted this explanation over the phone, though if they'd been at AllCott to witness my behavior in person I doubt it would have worked – because the students certainly didn't accept it. People stopped saying hello to me in the hallway and began avoiding my eyes. Whispers and rumors abounded about the _real_ reason for my sudden change in behavior; some ridiculous and some downright despicable, but none came close to the truth, so I didn't care. I'd done what I had to do, and I would survive.

At least, that's what I kept reminding myself day after day, while wasting the daylight hours away inside my empty, single dorm room.

**xxxxx**

Suicide was never an option to me, no matter how dismal things became. I'd been taught by my parents to be aggressive, proactive, and determined, and I'd approached my entire life that way thus far and wasn't about to stop now. I might have become a mutant, one of society's most loathed creatures, but I wouldn't give up. Maybe I'd been forced to abandon so many of the things I'd taken for granted – friends, sports, love – but I _wouldn't give up_. Suicide was a cheap way out. It was like _letting_ someone else win. And I hated, absolutely _hated_, to lose.

But I discovered one thing in the months after the wings appeared; one thing that brought me joy – flying.

I wasn't sure why the idea hadn't struck me sooner – after all, most animals that have wings, save for perhaps penguins and a few other birds, can fly. I'd wondered about my body being too heavy, though I had only grown to 5'9", and my mother's comment about me managing to stay so lean even with my disgusting eating habits always came back in my mind. The wings certainly _looked_ big enough. Was it possible?

I decided to try.

I snuck out one weekend on my own, taking the Spyder along the country backroads that led to the lake. As a full moon shone brightly overhead, I climbed up the tall rock cliffs that looked over the south side of the water. It was an area famous for cliff-diving, and the guys and I had come up on more than one occasion to fling ourselves over the side and into the water. It was the perfect place to practice.

It was also a disaster, at least in the beginning. My first attempt at flight ended with me hurtling into the water in a downward spiral, wings helplessly folded back and body limp. I hit the water hard, crying out as it smacked the bare skin of my chest, leaving it raw and red. However, I survived, and tried again. And again. I pulled myself out of the water and crawled back up the cliff, shaking the water from the feathers, and throwing myself out into the darkness once more. I ignored the cramps in my back, the stiffness in my joints, and the chill in my bones.

It took all night, but eventually I hit pay dirt – figuring out the proper use and leverage of my wings that allowed me to soar above the water like an eagle. It was a glorious feeling, and I remember having the fleeting thought, as I skirted above the treetops that surrounded the lake, that maybe – just maybe – life wouldn't be so bad after all.

After that hands-on flying lesson, I continued to spend the daytime inside, while the other students were out milling about on campus; but during the weeknights when the curfew was imposed, I snuck out my window and climbed to the top of the dormitory roof. It was easier than it sounds – the single room I'd moved in to was located on the sixth (and top) floor, and there was enough piping and sturdy ledges around the top for me to grab on and pull myself up. So while my classmates slept, I hit the skies – leaping off the top of the building and soaring across the campus and city.

It was strange to consider, but despite all they'd taken from me, when the sun went down the wings did allow me to feel one thing I'd never previously experienced – freedom.

**xxxxx**

I graduated with honors, accruing more accolades during my stint at AllCott than any of the other students. It wasn't surprising, really, and it at least supported the 'story' I'd told my parents. My new lack of social life left me with few options to fill my spare time, and so studying and flying had become my activities of choice. It had paid off, at least – I'd gotten accepted into the prestigious Sydney Williams University, with several scholarships to boot, and I took a certain amount of pride in the fact that I'd garnered it all on my own, without the assistance of my father's money.

The graduation ceremony was long and tedious, but put me strangely at ease. I sat between Margaret Wooden and Tyler Wright, ignoring the uncomfortable glances they gave me as I sat, passive and blank, listening to the keynote speaker. The graduation gowns, ugly as they might be, were a blessing because of their loose fit and length. I nodded and clapped when appropriate, walked and accepted my diploma with a smile, and threw my hat into the air just like everyone else when we were officially crowned as alumni.

But unlike everyone else, I didn't shed a single tear.

"Congratulations, Warren," my mother said warmly, after the ceremony. We were heading out for another celebratory dinner together. I sat in the back of their car, watching as my classmates hugged and kissed each other, laughing and frantically autographing each other's yearbooks. The parking lot was filled with new graduates slowly going to their cars, no doubt heading out to attend some of the all-night graduation parties I'd been hearing about. Parties that I, as usual, would not be attending.

"Yeah, you're a college boy now," my father said jovially. "There's a whole new world out there waiting for you…"

He continued to speak, reminiscing about his own college years, but I'd stopped paying attention. A tall blonde had caught my eye – Candy, still in her cap and gown, arm in arm with Walter Mitchell, a guy who'd played tennis with me years earlier. They'd begun dating not long after she and I had broken up, so I had gotten used to the sight of her with another guy, but... I couldn't deny the thick lump in my throat when I realized that I would more than likely never see her again. Which could be a blessing or a curse; I wasn't sure.

"Yeah… if high school was any indication," I replied vaguely, turning around in the seat and closing my eyes, "then college should be _very_ interesting."


	3. Chapter 1: On My Own

**A/N: **Hey, thanks for reading. And thanks to those of you who reviewed. :) Here's chapter one, sooner than I had expected. A brief aside -- I changed the college from Columbia University to a fictional Sydney Williams University. Just because I don't want to write about a real-life college and say inaccurate things about it. I decided it would be easier for me to just invent a new college so that I could give it everything it needed.

I think that's it for now... enjoy!

* * *

**Chapter One: On My Own**

June 14, 2006  
_Warren_

I love the smell of spices. Basil, rosemary, sage. Even garlic cloves – did you know that when you grill a head of garlic, it becomes a thick, potent spread for bread? It's delicious. Strong, but delicious.

Or maybe I've just been watching the Food Network too much.

I picked up the remote, idly flipping through the channels. I'd thought that life couldn't possibly get more boring than the past two years at AllCott, but I'd been proven wrong. Moving into the penthouse at Worthington Tower, one of the high-rise apartment complexes my father owned, had seemed like the perfect solution to my living situation a few months back when he'd first breached the idea. I had refused to live in the dorms, not because I felt they were beneath me, but because all the hiding and sneaking around at AllCott had been exhausting. But my own apartment? Less than six blocks from campus, no less? Couldn't have asked for anything better.

At least that's what I'd thought until about a month into my current living situation. The penthouse I'd moved into was on the top floor, carefully secluded from the rest of the Tower. It provided me many things – peace, quiet, a perfect 'runway' for taking off and landing, for example – but it also served to prove how truly alone I was. I'd expected it to a point, as it was my first summer living on my own, but I hadn't realized just how much the small interactions I'd been forced to have at school filled the time. I'd grown used to the noises spilling from other students' rooms; laughing and shouting, blaring stereos, TVs turned up too loud. I'd learned exactly how much conversation was required during classes in order to get by. But here? Didn't have to worry about any of that. I felt even more secluded and alienated than I had in high school, if that were even possible.

Yawning, I turned the flatscreen on the wall back to _Rachael Ray's Tasty Travels_. Cooking had become a hobby of sorts for me – since I was 'blessed' with more free time than I could handle, it was no big deal to spend a few hours in the kitchen every night, slicing and dicing and sautéing things. Plus, I liked Rachael Ray; she was cute, perky, and always had something interesting on her plate. The feature of the day was vegetarian sushi, which sounded promising. I'd given up meat not long after my mutation – perhaps it was because I'd become part avian myself, but even the thought of eating chicken or turkey made my stomach feel a little queasy. It was just easier, I decided, to forego meat altogether, regardless of species. Show a little compassion to my… 'brethren', for lack of a better word.

Wandering into the kitchen, I scrounged around the cabinets and refrigerator, collecting the required vegetables, pasta, soy sauce, and vinegar. As I grabbed a large sauce pan from the cast-iron hooks hanging over the center island, my eyes fell on the clock. 6:14. I sighed, filling the pot with water and setting it on the stove to boil. Another fine, aimless day; half gone by.

**xxxxx**

Summers, for me, are the worst time of the year. When I was younger, I lived for the months of June, July, and August, just like most kids. My parents kept a condominium in down in St. Augustine, and the vast majority of our summertime was spent relaxing down there. I was never much for lying around and getting a tan like my parents, but I did love the beach. As a child, I built sand castles and captured crabs and clams; as I got older, I learned to surf and flirt. In early high school, I'd brought Jakob and Cameron with me on vacation a few times, and we'd spent the days trolling the shoreline, looking for cute girls to play volleyball with us.

But those days were gone, and now, summer generally meant two things – one, that I had to wrap my wings down even tighter, in order to wear thinner summertime clothing, and two, that I would just have to deal with being _really_ fucking hot until autumn came. Feathers, I'd discovered, made a nice insulation. In the wintertime, it was helpful. Summer, not so much. Especially when it's somehow 80 degrees and humid even when the sun goes down.

I sighed loudly, trying not to think about how sweaty my back was and ignoring the idle glances of the few patrons around me who had heard. The supermarket was never crowded on Wednesday evenings, so I had chosen that specific time to go every week. I slowly pushed my cart through the aisles, taking plenty of time to survey the shelves. Actually, I didn't mind grocery shopping – in fact, found it sort of fun. When I'd moved into my apartment, my parents had assumed I would want the same kind of hired help that they themselves kept. But I'd turned down the offer of a maid, telling them I was perfectly capable of keeping the place clean and stocked with food myself. The last thing I needed was some nosy woman wondering why there were always stray feathers lying around the apartment.

I turned the corner with my cart, ambling down the soda aisle. I stopped in front of the Coke section, indecisive. Moments later, I heard the footsteps of someone approaching and doing the same.

"Can you tell the difference?" asked a female voice. I turned, finding myself standing next to a petite redhead. Pale, flawless skin, gorgeous body. She had her arms folded, staring at the endless line of two-liter bottles.

"Excuse me?" I said politely.

"The difference. Between Coke and Pepsi. Honestly, I can't tell, and I wondered if it was just _me_." She shrugged. "And why do we need fourteen different versions of Coke, anyway? Lime, lemon, vanilla, cherry, black cherry?" Her gaze slid from the bottles to me, and she smiled broadly.

_She's flirting with me,_ I realized. The knowledge was something of a shock – once I'd effectively become the 'weird' hermit kid at AllCott, I'd not had to worry about attention from females. I guess even money and decent good looks can't make up for a misanthropic personality.

In another lifetime, I would have flirted right back, sidled up to her, asked for her number. Maybe even gotten a little action that night. Instead, I just shrugged. "I dunno."

She wasn't put off. "Maybe it's got some sort of psychological meaning to it," she said lightly. "Like, I don't know, the flavor you choose says something of your personality. Maybe those who like vanilla are naturally sweet, and those who like lemon are grouches." I nodded, not necessarily because I agreed, but because I didn't want to add anything to the conversation. "What kind do _you_ like?"

"Regular," I answered.

"Ah, Classic Coke." She nodded her approval, long red locks bobbing with her movements. She had green eyes, I noticed. I loved girls with green eyes… Candy's had been a dark, muted green, almost olive-colored. "Always a good choice. Maybe it shows you have taste and class."

"Yeah, maybe." I walked over and picked out two of the large bottles, throwing them into my cart.

When she noticed I was preparing to move on, she stepped closer. "So…" she said, her voice turning softer. "I'm Kim. What's your name?"

I turned, reluctantly accepting her outstretched hand for a shake. I was ready to leave, and soon. The wings suddenly felt oppressive; twitchy, yearning to be unshackled and free. "Warren."

"Where do you live, Warren? Are you in school?" She cocked her head to the side, those green eyes sparkling. Her lips were tinged a coppery color from whatever lipstick she was wearing, and I fantasized for a brief moment what it would be like to kiss her. "I start SWU this fall. You're looking at the next beat reporter for the New York Times!" she concluded with a light laugh.

"I live close by, in an apartment," I said, intentionally staying vague. "And yeah, I'll be going to school in the fall. But-" I immediately cut her off before she could interject to ask where. "-but I really should be going now. I'm late as it is…" I made a big show of checking my watch, grandly pretending for a moment that I _did_ have plans. With a curt nod goodbye, I turned and left her standing in the soda aisle, miffed and frustrated.

I let out another good sigh as I made my way to the self-checkout counter. _You're not the only frustrated one, Kim,_ I thought. It was looking to be a long summer, indeed.

**xxxxx**

_June 17, 2006_

"Warren, honey…" I'd always wondered where my mother's affinity for pet names came from – the sweet little monikers she gave to my father and I seemed much more appropriate for an aging southern belle than for a sharp-minded Yankee businesswoman. She was sitting opposite me on the couch, slowly draining her second cup of Gevalia Light Roast. I met her gaze unwaveringly. "Your father and I are worried about you."

I kept my expression passive, as if considering that statement. I already knew where this conversation was going. Ever since graduation and the move, my mother had visited me no less than once a week for dinner, occasionally bringing my father along if he was free. AllCott had been far outside the city, a tough drive that my parents made only for special occasions. Worthington Tower, however, was a mere 15-minute ride from her and my father's own townhouse, and I found myself increasingly under her scrutiny. The half-truths and reassurances I'd given her at school wouldn't fly here, not when she could see for herself that I really _was_ a homebody and a loner.

"Why?" I asked, my tone casual.

She lifted her mug of coffee to her lips before replying, a typical Katherine Worthington maneuver. She always used that dramatic pause right before telling me something I didn't particularly want to hear.

"I saw Mrs. Bennett today, when I was at the salon," she said. I felt my brows shoot up. Mrs. Bennett was the well-meaning school counselor who had attempted to get to the 'root' of my supposed behavioral problems. I'd spent most of our sessions together staring at the wall behind her head and counting the cracks in the paint.

"Yeah?" I said, leaning back against the couch cushion, feigning interest. "How's she doing?"

"She's fine." She took another sip. "Actually, she asked me how _you_ were doing."

"Aah," I replied, nodding. I attempted to make light of it. "Plenty busy, as you can see…"

She ignored me, setting the mug aside. She looked tired, I thought. A little more worn than usual. Her graying hair was pulled back away from her face, and she hadn't put on makeup just to come see me.

"Warren…" her voice grew quiet. "She suggested… well, I know we've talked about this before, she still thinks you should see a doctor. A psychologist…"

I silently groaned. I'd seen plenty of therapists while at AllCott, but had managed to avoid the d-word because without my parents' consent, the school couldn't force me to go. And I'd always managed to skirt the issue with them. "A doctor."

"Yes… She even recommended one, his name is Dr. Leary, and apparently he's one of the best…"

"No," I answered immediately. Probably _too_ immediately. But I'd long ago worked out the issues at stake – a doctor of _any_ sort would require a physical exam be done before anything else. And that simply could not happen. I stood up, walking away from the couch, and looked out the glass windows that led to the balcony. I stared longingly at the sky; the sun had long since set, the stars were out, and I was more than ready to fly. "I'm fine. I don't need some quack to tell me I'm just an introvert."

"Warren, you can't fool us any longer. You didn't _used_ to be such an introvert, that's the issue…" I heard a rustling, and moments later, she joined me at the window. "And I can't believe we took your word for it in the first place, all those times before when you said you were fine… that's my fault, I should have pressed you harder…" She sighed, placing her hand on my shoulder. I automatically flinched – she was dangerously close to the base of my left wing. "Honey, it's okay. It's okay to admit you need help."

"But I _don't_," I said, anger tinting my voice. I didn't mean to snap at her, but the jerk reflex had become something of an automatic response. I'd discovered it was the easiest way to get people to back down. "So, I like my privacy. That's all, okay? Everyone makes such a big deal about it…" I stalked back to the couch and sat down, aware of how childish I was sounding. "I don't want to talk about it. I'm fine."

She remained by the window, standing tall and regal. She looked right at home and completely at ease in this living room, which was no surprise since she'd been the one to decorate it. From the dark cherry coffee table, to the accent floor lamps in the corner, to the Renaissance paintings on the wall, the apartment practically screamed of Katherine Worthington. Maybe _that_ was why she felt the need to visit it so often…

I watched as she sucked in her breath, ready to fire off another rebuttal. My mother had a law degree _and_ had been on the debate team in college, so her inner barrister frequently made an appearance when she wanted something done her way.

To my surprise, she didn't bother, instead deflating and giving a helpless shrug of her shoulders. Apparently she wasn't in a mood to fight tonight. "Well," she said quietly. "If you ever _do_ want to talk about it, honey, I'm here."

There was a huge part of me that _wanted_ to. A part that wanted to lift the shirt and tear off the bandages, showing her exactly why I needed the privacy. I'd tell her about the night they grew in, how I'd cried from the physical and mental pain. About how I hated hiding everything from her and Dad and all my friends; how I hated strapping them down and being hot. I'd tell her about the loneliness…

And, strangely, about how I also now felt I couldn't live _without_ them.

Instead, I just nodded, knowing that wouldn't happen. "I know, Mom," I said, matching her soft tone. "I know."

**xxxxx**

Nighttime in New York is not _really_ nighttime – the place is so brightly lit that I'm fairly sure it must glitter from space. At least it does from a mile up in the air…

My mother had stayed a little longer after her small confrontation, stating that she hadn't meant to get me upset, but that she was simply concerned about me. I couldn't say I didn't understand her anxiety. That's what mothers are for, after all – worrying. And though I was off the hook for the time being, I knew that from here on out the topic was going to come up again and again… and eventually, something would have to give.

Nevertheless, we'd had a relatively pleasant evening after that. I'd listened as she idly chatted about what was going on in her life – their recent decision to remodel the kitchen, her and my father's upcoming trip to Japan, the monthly book club she'd joined. Around eleven o'clock, she'd finally called their driver to come pick her up, declaring that it was far past her bedtime. "I love you, honey," she'd said before heading out the door, kissing my cheek. I'd replied that I loved her, too, and had immediately gone to the window, watching carefully to see that she got into the town car that was taking her home.

Then, within minutes of her departure, I'd rushed to my bedroom, ripped off the bandages, put on my 'flying' clothes, and leaped over the railing of the balcony. Free once again, for a time.

I held out my arms perpendicular to my body and closed my eyes, enjoying the rush of wind against my face. I'd bought a snug, stretchy hat to wear while flying some months back, since it was the only thing I could think of to keep the hair completely off my face and the tight fit ensured that it wouldn't come off. The evening had actually cooled down a bit for once, and instead of flying shirtless as I usually did in the summer, I'd chosen a tight-fitting Under Armour tee, which I'd modified in the back with wing openings and a zipper. Learning to sew had been a pain in the ass (not to mention a little embarrassing, though obviously no one _knew_ about it), but it had been worth it. Though I'd grown to dislike wearing shirts at all at home or while flying, there were times when I had no choice.

I breathed deeply, thankful that the air this high didn't have the scent of car exhaust. These excursions were by far the highlight of every day – roaming in the sky above the city, far above the bustling of the streets below. I was high enough to remain largely unseen; just a barely-there speck in the heavens if anyone cared to look.

Although thanks to another odd side effect of my mutation (at least that was my hypothesis), _I_ could still see the minute details of each and every person strolling the sidewalks, like their hair color or the writing on their t-shirts. I could tell the make and model of every car on the street; I could see each traffic light and tell whether it was glowing red, amber, or green. All I had to do was look down, concentrate for a moment, and the world became precise and crystal-clear. Proof that I was meant to fly, I assumed. 'Eyes like a hawk', indeed.

I folded my wings back and opened my eyes. Lowering my arms, I tilted my head down and allowed my body to fall into a dive, gathering speed as I rocketed towards the ground. Seconds later, I straightened up and thrust my wings out so that I was flying straight again. I felt the familiar tickle in my stomach as all my momentum was redirected, the same sort of sensation I used to get when Cameron and I rode the Vortex down at the Pavilion by the beach.

My thoughts were jumbled as I arced around, heading towards SWU. Classes didn't begin until mid-August, which meant I had two months to kill in the meantime. If my mother's conversation tonight was any indication, then this summer wouldn't slide by as easily as I hoped it would. I didn't even want to _think_ about what would happen if she ever managed to get me in a doctor's office. What would they do? Send me away? Disown me? Or worse – and this was a notion that had occurred to me many late nights while thinking too much in bed – what if they wanted to amputate? I was no medical professional, but if surgeons could successfully remove people's arms and legs, what would stop them from removing a set of eight-foot wings?

And as much as I despised the wings sometimes, I didn't _want_ them removed. It was an interesting love/hate relationship, and something I couldn't fully understand. All I knew for certain was that I was not interested in having any part of my body hacked off with a surgical saw…

I shook my head, clearing out those dark thoughts. I could see campus close ahead. Maple trees lined the walkways, forming an interesting zig-zag pattern noticeable from the air. The buildings were all constructed of the same aged brick, with white concrete facades on the front declaring their name and purpose. I flew closer, intending to search out the places I knew I'd be frequenting come fall – Walter Doran Memorial Library, the College of Business, and Ginger Hall.

Instead, my eyes focused on a bright orange light coming from the westernmost edge of campus, where the dormitories were. I let out a gasp when I realized what it was – flames. One of the dorms, a tower that appeared to be about twenty floors high, was on fire.

I flew closer, fascinated. It looked like it had been burning for some while; the air around was thick and reeked of acrid smoke, and down on the ground there was a sea of police cars and fire trucks. People were milling about, hugging and holding each other while staring up at the flames and smoke that billowed from the tower. The firefighters below were spraying the building with thick jets of water from all sides, but from what I could tell, it didn't seem to be doing much good.

I landed on the roof of another dorm nearby, resting as I watched the melee unfold. In a way, the sight was beautiful – the thick orange light dancing and flickering from the windows; undulating in a mesmerizing pattern. Occasionally a loud crack could be heard, the sound of some internal support breaking, and the flames would briefly intensify with a thunderous _woosh_. I shook my head, watching as the fire climbed higher up the tower. _That building's a goner… might as well let it burn, then raise it and start from scratch…_

I watched for several minutes more before turning to leave. The wind was blowing in my direction, and I could see a faint layer of soot on my arms from the smoke. I'd never be able to get that smell out of these clothes…

I had just taken the first quick step of my take-off when I heard something, faint and tinny.

I stopped abruptly, listening. And heard it again. "_HELP! HELP ME, PLEASE, HELP…"_ A woman, screaming at the top of her lungs, obviously terrified. I raced over to the rooftop edge closest to the dorm, my eyes searching every window. And then I saw her – a few floors above the topmost flame was a young woman, with her head sticking out of the window. She was screaming down at the rescue teams below, but I knew it was futile – she was too far up, there was no way they could hear over the din. I knew the dorms were sparsely populated during the summer anyway, and they might have already assumed that the building was completely evacuated.

_She's going to die_, I suddenly thought. It would take maybe fifteen minutes for the fire to climb to her level… and that was if she didn't choke from smoke inhalation first…

I stared as she screamed for several minutes more. Then, her figure disappeared back into the room, and I wondered if she had just given up. _What a horrible way to go…_

I don't know why I did it. Maybe it was a by-product of my heightened emotional state; the toll of being alone, turning down that beautiful girl in the grocery earlier in the week, dealing with my mother's well-intentioned intervention. Maybe it was the need to feel like I was doing _something_ right. I took no time to think, no time to plan; I was just struck with the recognition that if that girl was going to live, it was going to have to be via me. In one swift movement, I catapulted myself over the rooftop railing and back into the air. I swept upwards towards the tower, eyes locked on that one window. I ignored the heat and smoke, focused only on my goal.

The window was raised all the way, and luckily it was just wide enough for me to squeeze through. When I reached the sill, I folded my wings back and crawled inside, coughing loudly when an updraft carried fluttering bits of ash into my face. I squinted, struggling to see – I hadn't expected this room to be filled with smoke yet, but there was already a thick layer floating heavily, like smog. I squatted low to the floor, casting a glance back and forth.

It was a typical dorm room, small and crowded – a set of bunked beds over in the corner, two desks with computers against the wall, two closets by the door. There was a small TV stand stacked with electronic equipment and a bean bag chair in front of it. There was a pile of clothes thrown on top of the bed, posters all over the wall, and picture frames on every flat surface.

And huddled in the corner, with her knees drawn up and her face in her hands, was the girl I'd come for.

She was rocking back and forth, sobbing quietly. I crawled towards her, unsure what to say. _What am I doing? She's going to see me, recognize me some day on campus, tell someone…_ Grabbing my hat, I pulled the hem down as low over my eyes as I could. I glanced down at my arms, again noting the blackish tint to them from the soot. I only hoped my face was equally as covered.

"Hey," I said uncertainly. "Miss…?"

Her head jerked up and I withdrew, ashamed, as her eyes grew wide with horror. I could only imagined what I looked like – dressed all in black, with a dirty face and two gigantic wings half-folded to either side. With tears making small rivers down her sooty face, she screamed.

"No, no—" I stuttered. "I-I can help you. Come on, I'll get you out of here…"

"Who are you?" she said, her voice wavering uncontrollably. "_What_ are you?"

"I came to help you," I repeated. "C'mon, we have to hurry…"

"They have ladders, the firemen…" she said. "They'll come for me…" I inwardly sighed. I supposed I could understand her fear and trepidation towards trusting a mysterious creature that had appeared from nowhere, but I was a little insulted that I'd essentially risked my life only to be shunned.

_You think they're coming for you? Is that why you're crying in the corner?_ I tilted my head towards the window. "They can't hear you down there," I said. "We're too high. And this place is either gonna collapse or implode any minute." I extended my hand to her. "So if you want to make it out alive, you're gonna have to trust me."

She opened her mouth to reply, when the building suddenly shook with a giant tremor – another support breaking, I could only assume. She let out a strangled cry instead and grabbed my outstretched hand. Well, at least it seemed now she would rather be saved by a mutant than die a fiery death, and I figured that had to count for _something_.

Wordlessly, I took us both to the window. As I looked outside, trying to figure out the easiest way to get us both through, I realized I hadn't considered how I was going to carry her – threshold-style, in my arms, or in an embrace? Shit, _could_ I even carry her? She wasn't a large girl by any means, but adding a hundred-plus pounds to my weight was certainly a significant difference…

God, I should have thought all this through.

I took a deep breath, gently putting my hand on her back, feeling the warmth underneath her thin nightshirt. Her entire body was trembling. She responded by uneasily putting an arm around my neck, and I took that as I sign that I'd be carrying her in my arms. I scooped her up, and with some clumsy difficulty, managed to climb back onto the windowsill. She eyed me suspiciously as I misjudged the height of our escape route, banging my head against the bottom of the window opening. I suppressed a curse and attempted to act professional – as if I'd actually done this before.

_She doesn't feel heavy at all, strange…_ I thought. _And actually, it feels sort of nice…_ I hadn't been this close, hadn't touched anyone so much in years. My tryst with Candy had been the last time I'd had my arms around a woman other than my mother. I swallowed, wondering if it was wrong that I was enjoying the feel of her body against mine.

"I don't like heights," she said suddenly.

"It's okay. Just hold on," I said quietly, and she tightened her hold on my neck a little. Then, with a strong push from my legs, we dove out into the open air.

She let out another cry, hiding her face in my neck. I couldn't help but smile as I glided downward, away from the crowds. A few minutes later, I landed on the ground behind the library in a run, my bare feet chilled by the dewy grass. I stopped, and with some reluctance, set her down.

I wasn't sure what to say. "There," I whispered. "See?"

She took a few shaky steps back, fully appraising my entire appearance – standing up, wings fully extended. I could still see the fright in her eyes, the uncertainty about what sort of creature she'd just trusted her life with, but there was another sentiment mixed with that fear: gratitude. I felt a sudden swelling of pride, another emotion I'd not felt in a long time.

"Is this for real?" she asked softly, raking a hand through her blackened blonde hair. "Are you – are you an angel?"

I almost snorted – an angel? Winged, true; but pure, kind and selfless I was not. "No," I said simply. "I'm not."

"Who _are_ you?"

I didn't reply – I could hear voices approaching, people calling out what I assumed was her name – '_Jenny, Jenny!'_ and I realized that we must have been seen at some point on the ride down. Glancing back at her, I shook my head. Mission accomplished. Time to go.

"It doesn't matter," I said. With that, I turned, taking off in a run, and joined the air once again.

But not before I heard her last two words, a statement that somehow made me feel useful and whole. _"Thank you…"_

As I headed back to the penthouse, my head was reeling from the events that had just transpired. I'd just saved someone's life… _and_ it felt damn good. I suddenly realized what I would be doing to fill my spare time from here on out.

Maybe my life had a deeper purpose, after all…


	4. Chapter 2: Starting Over

**A/N:** Here's chapter two. It's from my original character's point of view. I know that a lot of people hate original characters, and sometimes with good reasons. I myself like them -- I like to invent someone totally new to interact with already-established characters. And I make it a point to try and avoid writing Mary Sues. I prefer characters who are relatable and real.

And my OCs are not an excuse to like... write out my own personal fantasies or anything like that (like many Mary-Sue OCs are). If _that_ was the plan, I'd tell you right now that this story would be short, sweet, and rated XXX. ;) But it's not. haha.

And that being said, anyone who's read my writing knows that I spend a lot of time setting things up. So, have a little patience while I get the backbone of the story up and running. :) They will have _much_ more interaction in the future, I promise -- and it won't all be school-related (not by far). I'm actually thinking now (having worked out more of the plot in my head) that some of the other X-Men will probably show up more than I originally intended. Which is not to say a lot, but more than just cameos, I think.

Anyway... I think the whole point of this was for me to say to have some patience, and give this story a chance, even if you're kind of turned off by the idea of an OC. If you read awhile and then decide you don't like her, okay. :) I'll not be offended.

But thank you for reading, and for everyone who left reviews! Seeing those alerts in my inbox brightens my day. :)

* * *

**Chapter 2: Starting Over**

August 16, 2006  
_Sera_

_I can't believe I'm actually doing this._

"Slone? Sera Slone?" I looked up as my named was called.

"Here," I said, with a small half-wave. A few students glanced back at me and I felt a little conspicuous. The boy sitting diagonally from my desk turned slowly, met my eyes, and smiled. I smiled back, making a mental note: _cute guy in next row appears to be affable. Should attempt to make friends later in case I ever need to borrow notes some day._

I leaned back in my chair, tracing my fingers around a crudely designed Omega symbol etched into the desktop surface. I would never understand why kids felt the need to deface public property. In elementary school, it was always names and simple geometric figures. At the high school I'd taught at, the boys were fond of carving creative curses into the wood along with the phone numbers of ex-girlfriends and promises of a "good time". And in college, the artwork almost reverted back to elementary school, only this time the geometric figures were actually just Greek letters; some misguided attempt at fraternity or sorority pride. I would have thought that by the time you reached the age of eighteen, you'd have outgrown that sort of behavior, but I guess not. When you got right down to it, there were certain things about schools that would always be universal, whether it was elementary school or college; privately owned or state-funded.

_I bet I'm the oldest person in here._

I turned my head, appraising each classmate in an orderly fashion. It had been nine years since I'd first set foot on any campus and five years since the _last_ time I'd been on one. Looking around at all the young, jittery freshman, I realized that most of them would have been nine years old at the time when I was originally in their position. _Nine_ years old. Sweet Jehovah.

I slouched in the seat as the instructor continued down the roster, reading off the names one by one. I wonder if he found it as amusing as I did that half of those names would no longer _be_ on the roster come midterm. "Thomas… Lucinda Thomas? Tripp… Martin Tripp?"

_What time does that next class start? I wonder if I can make it over there on time…_

I reached into my backpack – how silly it felt, to walk around carrying that after a few short years of using a briefcase – and pulled out my DayPlanner. This class, Financial Accounting I, was immediately followed by another prerequisite finance class, Intro to Ethics. Then I was supposed to meet up with Dylan and Randi in the food court for lunch. Beyond that, the rest of my day was open. I smiled. I'd nearly forgotten, in my nervousness about starting over, just how great college life could be.

"Worthington? Warren Worthington?"

I snapped back to attention.

"Here." The reaction was simultaneous and in unison, as if it'd been choreographed. Twenty-two heads swiveled to see who'd spoken that one word. And, I predicted, twenty-two heads were also wondering if _that_ boy, the uncomfortable-looking kid in the very back wearing the sloppy t-shirt and jeans, was _that_ Warren Worthington. Son of Worthington Jr., CEO of the multi-billion dollar Worthington Industries. The guy who was on the cover of _Fortune_ magazine no less than twice a year.

He stared straight ahead, stonefaced, ignoring the idle looks of our classmates. He probably got that a lot, I figured. Stares and whispers. Came with the territory of being a billionaire, I could only assume.

_Good-looking kid,_ I noted. Blonde curls. Slight tan. Sharp, delicate features. Not really my type, but then again it would be a sad day if I had designs on an eighteen-year old.

"Okay, I'm going to pass out the syllabus now," our professor announced, and one by one the class turned forward. I grabbed a copy of the syllabus and silently followed along as Dr. Frank read through the class rules and list of upcoming projects. Tucking my hair behind my ears, I couldn't help but sneak a glance behind me. He was following along the syllabus, as well, with his elbows on the desk and head in his hands.

_Warren Worthington the third, joining the ranks of the college masses_, I mused silently. Interesting. Sitting up straight, I returned my attention to the front of the room.

**xxxxx**

When I'd graduated college the first time, I thought I'd been set for life. My mother had been an algebra teacher, and since numbers were in my blood, I followed suit, earning a degree in math. I'd gotten a job teaching high school geometry and pre-calculus at a school in the suburbs of Charleston. I'd gotten engaged, _finally_, to the man I'd dated since I was sixteen, and we moved into a tiny, but beautiful little house that we'd paid a little too much for. But overall, it was the American dream, really. Almost sickening. I'd followed the script my parents set out for me: stayed out of trouble, gotten good grades, dated the 'good' guy. At my five-year high school reunion, my friends all commented that I seemed to have it made. Not too shabby for a country girl from the mountains of West Virginia.

I _should_ have been happy. I had no right _not_ to be happy, not with everything I'd been given. But try as I might, I could never quite shake the feeling that my so-called perfect life was just a cage. I'd never stepped outside the perimeter. Never done anything truly spontaneous. For the most part, I'd always done what I'd been _told_ was best for me. And eventually, I had the damning realization that what was best for me might just be another life entirely.

_And here I am, living that new life… _

I absentmindedly smoothed back the hair of my ponytail, lost in thought. In retrospect, I'd gotten out of my sticky situation somewhat easily. The wedding was cancelled, and shortly after, my fiancé Nick and I ended things altogether. He kept the house, the four-year-old Toyota Camry, and the German Shepherd. I took the washer and dryer, the 32-inch TV, and the queen-sized pillow top bed. I'd moved to New York on a whim, surviving by bartending at a pub down on Broadway while I figured out what I wanted to do. In recent months, I'd finally decided: go back to school and get a new career. I was good with numbers, that much I'd already proven, so it was time to get a job where I could _really_ get paid for that talent – thus, finance. But in making that choice, I'd gone from secure, safe, and predictable to uncertainty and a steady diet of Ramen noodles.

And truthfully? Despite my anxieties, I'd never been happier.

I glanced around at my second group of classmates rejoining the real world. I recognized a few familiar faces from the previous class (including, interestingly enough, Warren Worthington), but for the most part, it was a new group. The professor for Ethics, a man named Leon Marcus, was late – on the first day, no less. Everyone was getting antsy, unsure whether they should adhere to the mythical '5-10-15 minute' rule. The way I'd always heard (and abided by), you waited five minutes for a graduate assistant, ten minutes for a professor, and fifteen minutes for a doctor before giving up and bolting for the door. It hadn't been quite ten minutes yet, but we were almost there.

The cute guy who had smiled at me in the previous class was in this one, as well, a fact that made me happier than it should have. I wasn't exactly ready to get into another relationship yet, but having never truly been single before, I kind of liked the open option of _'What if?'_. Plus, having some friendly eye candy to enjoy was never a bad thing.

He was sitting in front of me, so I leaned forward to speak. "Well," I said. "This Marcus guy hasn't exactly made a stellar first impression on me."

He turned sideways in his seat, giving me another killer smile. My eyes went to his hair, a rich, dark brunette cut in an attractively mussed shag. "I've had friends who've had him," he said, his voice a deep baritone. "They said he was always late, scatterbrained. He lost their midterms, and everybody had to take the tests again."

"Fantastic," I said with fake cheer. "It's good to see that incompetence crosses all geographic and intellectual boundaries. I'd thought maybe it was just delegated to West Virginia."

"West Virginia? I should have known by the accent. Home of the Mountaineers?" He nodded. "Good football team."

"So I hear. I didn't go to a single game while I was at WVU, though." He had an interesting nose, I decided. It appeared to have been broken before, with a slight crook in it. A nose with character.

"WVU?" he asked. "Did you transfer from there?"

I blushed, realizing I was about to give up my age to this guy and probably scare him off. "No. I got a degree from there… a few years ago. Math. I just turned twenty-seven," I added, when I saw that he was about to ask. "An old lady amongst children."

"_Really_," he said. "You have a young face. But… you're back in school again… why?"

"Career change," I said. No need for details just yet. "Just decided I needed something different."

He nodded his approval. "I can certainly relate. I'm actually on my third major switch now. Indecision's my middle name." His eyes crinkled with laughter. "And I'm twenty-four, by the way. So you're not quite _that_ old to me."

_Twenty-four, you say? Interesting…_

"Thank you," I said dryly. "I appreciate the semi-compliment."

"You're very welcome." He shifted in his seat, and extended one hand out to me. "By the way, I'm Jonathan."

"I'm Sera," I said. "With an 'e'."

"An 'e'?" he repeated.

"S-E-R-A," I spelled out for him. "What can I say? My parents were hippies. Maybe disregarding government-sanctioned spelling standards was their way of fighting back against 'the man'."

He laughed, nodding. "Maybe so. I-"

"Oh! So sorry, everyone…" Jonathan was interrupted by the arrival of our professor – a youngish guy with long, sandy hair… who, by my watch, was a full fourteen minutes late. "There was an accident down on 5th and we were all detoured around the block…" He muttered to himself a few minutes more, collecting and organizing his desk space. His tie was half-undone, the top button of his shirt open. He was also sweating, I noticed. He must have run all the way to the building.

"But enough about that," he continued after a moment. "Let's get started." He yanked out his paperwork and began calling roll, so I settled back in my seat.

Once class was over, I walked slowly out the door, chatting with Jonathan. It was a relief, actually, to see how easy it could be to make new friends. One of my biggest fears in moving this far away from home had been that I wouldn't be able to adjust and meet new people – but so far, so good.

_This was definitely the right decision… I can do this…_

We stood together in the hallway, still talking, when someone brushed past me, knocking the DayPlanner I held under my arm right into the floor. I bent to pick it up, giving a curious look to the guy who'd bumped me.

"Sorry," Warren Worthington said flatly, giving me only a quick cursory glance before turning around and walking away. I raised an eyebrow. Jonathan did the same.

_So much for chivalry. He could have at least made an attempt to bend and pick up what he knocked down…_

"He seems… pleasant," I murmured.

"Most rich kids are," Jonathan agreed. Our eyes met, and I couldn't help but chuckle a little.

"Well, Jonathan, I'm off to lunch with friends," I said. "But hey, I'll see you later."

"Well, Sera with an 'e'," he said, winking, "you most certainly will."

**xxxxx**

One of the more encouraging things about moving to New York had been the opportunity to reunite with some friends who had long since flown the coop of Wheeling, West Virginia. Dylan and Randi Cox were brother and sister, fraternal twins, and an adventuresome, comic duo. I'd spent many weekends in high school at their place when their parents went out of town, drinking bottles of Boones Farm and poorly mixed, sugary margaritas. At the time, we thought ourselves to be incredibly bad-ass, but the fact that we never attended any _real_ parties thrown by classmates back then spoke volumes.

The two of them made the leap to New York immediately after high school, both interested in pursuing a career in acting. Randi wanted to be the movie star, a glamour girl, an awards-show whore. Dylan's fantasy was to be on Broadway, playing the lead in _Sweeney Todd_.

Naturally, Randi was currently waitressing at Le Deauville, a classy French restaurant with a stereotypically temperamental French chef, and Dylan was a props manager for the Elwood Theatre Company. Both poor, both waiting for their big break, but both having the time of their lives in the process.

They met me for lunch in the food court on campus, a large buffet-style set-up with pretty glass skylights and lots of foliage inside. I had gone for uber-cheap McDonald's cuisine, while the two of them had headed to some Italian eatery I'd never heard of for pizza and breadsticks. We'd chosen a table closest to the window that overlooked the quad, and I'd been dominating the conversation thus far, giving them all the sordid details of my day. Well, dominating the conversation until the topic of a certain billionaire came up, anyway.

"What? Did you say Warren _Worthington_?" Randi's eyes lit up hungrily. Figures. She had often said her 'true' goal in life was to marry rich, sit at home, and produce an assembly line of heirs. It was a joke – I _think_ – but any mention of well-to-do young men in her presence was always met with that mischievous gleam.

"Yep," I said, taking a long sip of my Coke. It had long since watered down; we'd been sitting in the food court for awhile. "He was in _both_ of my classes today."

"I bet he's going for a Finance major, too," Randi mused. "I saw his picture in the paper a few months back, he was at some charity dinner with his dad… he's _incredibly_ hot, Sera…" Her brow furrowed in concentration, a long-time, familiar habit I remembered from our Central Catholic High School days. "…and you might be seeing him a lot…" Her eyes suddenly widened. "Oh! Just think, if you play your cards right, you could get in good with him and be an analyst for Worthington Industries!" She gave me a toothy grin. "And then _casually_ introduce us along the way…"

Dylan just rolled his eyes, tossing back his dark, disheveled hair. He was a prime example of God's sick sense of humor towards femalekind – incredibly smart, talented, sweet, funny, goodlooking, and, of course… gay. "Jesus, I think you're actually salivating," he said, pointing his plastic fork at his five-minute-younger sister. "Next thing we know you'll be hanging around the Business College, staking him out like a groupie."

I shrugged, turning back to Randi, addressing her original point. "There's no telling what he's doing. All the majors in the college of business have the same basic requirements, so I don't know what his focus is going to be in. Besides," I added. "I don't think I'd want to work for him, anyway. I suspect he's a jerk."

"Why?" Randi asked.

"He has billions of dollars, Ran," Dylan said. "Of _course_ he's going to be a jerk."

"He bumped into me and knocked my book in the floor… didn't even bother to try and pick it up." I rattled my nearly-empty cup around, wondering if they offered free refills here. Scholarship and grant money had taken care of most of my tuition, but living expenses were insanely high in New York. Thank God for student loans. "Well… he _did_ apologize, if you could call it that. Though I don't think a hateful 'Sorry' spoken while halfway down the hall really counts."

Randi chomped down on the remainder of her Hawaiian pizza, chewing thoughtfully. "Maybe he was just in a hurry," she said, mouth full. Dylan chastised her lack of manners, but she ignored him. "You know. Important meeting, or something."

Dylan snorted. "Yeah, I'm so sure. What I can't figure out is why he's taking classes in the first place. He could just go work for daddy until it's time to inherit the business. He's _set_. What good is a college major compared with real work experience?"

"That shows he has _ambition_," Randi said dreamily. "He wants to _earn_ the family business…"

Dylan and I exchanged a look. It amazed me that twins could be so different – one grounded and stable, one flighty and reckless. The two of them might have only been a year younger than me, but there were times when I suspected Randi had the mental capacity of a fourteen-year-old. It was a good thing she was so lovable.

I crumpled up my napkins and burger wrapper. "Whatever," I said. "I'm tired of talking about him. Let me tell you about this incredibly cute, _nice_ guy named Jonathan who was _also_ in both of my classes today…"

Dylan nodded in approval. "Incredibly cute? Continue."

**xxxxx**

I live in a cracker box. Well, a studio apartment, which is essentially the same thing (the dimensions are not that different, I promise). But at least it's a nice cracker box, pest-free and in a relatively good part of town. _And_ I have my own bathroom. I'd heard horror stories from friends who'd lived in apartments with community bathrooms, and I'd had plenty of that nonsense in the dorms at WVU. Gross clumps of strange dark hair in the drain and used razors lying around? No, thanks. Living on my own was considerably more expensive, but I figured it would be worth it. Again – thank God for student loans.

_One day down… another three years to go._

I sauntered inside and threw my backpack down on the bed. I wasn't used to having empty days. Teaching school had lasted until three o'clock, and since I'd been elected to be the sponsor of the Pep Club (new teachers always got shafted when it came to those things), many of my afternoons were spent chaperoning meetings. After that, it was usually home for dinner, followed by a quick workout, followed by a marathon of grading tests and papers until about midnight.

This new lifestyle was making me look downright lazy. A couple of classes each morning, leisurely workouts in the afternoon, and some hours shilling beers at the bar a few times a week. I knew that things would get considerably more hectic once school was in full swing, but for the time being, I was enjoying the loose structure of my days.

I sat down at my desk – a hand-me-down from my father, an old roll-top style that had a few splintered spots here and there in the wood – and pulled out my class schedule, poring over it. I was taking sixteen hours this semester, a full load, but not overwhelming by any means. I had learned that because of my previous tenure at college, all the generic general ed requirements were already taken care of, which had immediately shaved one year off of getting a degree. That was excellent news. I took solace in the fact that at least I'd be getting my new degree before I turned thirty. Barely.

The first four classes were pretty standard. In addition to basic Accounting and Ethics, I was enrolled in Business Writing and Statistical Method, more requirements. And then a physical fitness course in Ultimate Frisbee, which I thought was hysterical. There hadn't been any other required classes available at a time I could take them this semester, so I'd decided to do something fun and pointless. It was part of my new outlook on life – no regrets. Once I'd made the decision to leave West Virginia, I'd become determined to go with my gut and see where it led me. For better or worse.

After refreshing my memory, I tossed the schedule down and grabbed the newspaper from my backpack. Nothing too interesting today – YANKS BEAT SOX, 5-3; PRESIDENT HUGHES SIGNS NEW VOTING ACT, MUTANT ARRESTED AFTER BANK-ROBBING SPREE. Yawning, I threw the paper in the trash and stood up. Hours to kill before going into work… Smiling at the luxury, I decided it would be a good time for a nap.

**xxxxx**

_August 30, 2006_

"You realize that there's a group project for this class."

I looked up from my book. It was a dreary Wednesday, Dr. Marcus was late _again_, and I'd been passing the time with my most recent purchase, a secondhand copy of _Animal Dreams_ from the used bookstore two blocks from campus. Jonathan had turned around in his chair, and was giving me an expectant look.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. And it's gonna start soon, according to the syllabus." He paused, grinning and propping his elbow on my desk, and resting his square chin on one hand. My, but he was a charmer. "I'm just gonna go ahead and claim you right now, if that's all right."

"Claim me? What are you, a Neanderthal?" Nevertheless, I smiled. Jonathan just had one of those easy, impish personalities that made him impossible not to like. "What makes you think we'll get to pick our own groups, anyway? You know, I was a teacher for almost four years… part of our job description included making kids as miserable as possible by pairing them up with the people they loathed most."

He chuckled. "True. People like you made my high school years a painful experience." I smirked, feigning pride in that statement. "But, seriously," he continued, "if that's not the case – can I work with you? I'd like to be in a group where _I_ can be the slacker for once."

He gave me a wink to let me know he was joking. We'd discussed the flakiness of younger college students on several occasions already. Both of us being older, we'd long since lost our tolerance for cheap excuses and last-minute work. I snorted, dog-earring page eighty-three in my book when I noticed Dr. Marcus breezing into the door. I tossed the book back in my back and pulled out a pen and notebook.

"Funny, I was about to say the same thing," I said sweetly. Jonathan turned around, grabbing his own notebook and pencil. I leaned forward, whispering. "But yeah, sure. That would be great, actually." Without turning around, he gave me the thumbs-up.

Dr. Marcus tossed down his briefcase and strolled to the front of the room. He was the type to start talking as soon as he walked in, without so much as a preface. No intro, no roll-call, he just stormed through the discussions. And he always seemed to have a perpetually unkempt look about him, which went along well with the rumors of being scatterbrained. Maybe that was what a philosophy degree did to people.

"So," he intoned, catching the class's attention. "Does everyone here know what a _whistleblower_ is?"

"_A chick with a kinky oral sex fetish!"_ called out one guy in the back, which was met with muffled snorts of laughter. I rolled my eyes.

Dr. Marcus, for his part, barely blinked. "No, Adam. Anyone else?" He made eye contact with me, and I knew I was next. I'd learned he was the type to just call on someone if he didn't get an immediate answer. "Sera?"

"Someone who reports wrongdoing, like for a corporation, or the government," I said, suddenly feeling young and inferior. I wondered how long it would take before I got used to being the student instead of the teacher. "Like… Sherron Watkins from Enron."

"Correct. Now… in the wake of Enron and other similar scandals, there's been some interesting views brought to light about the morality of whistleblowing itself. Is it always right to bring a company's misconduct to the forefront of public consciousness? Are whistleblowers selfless martyrs, or are they glory-seeking publicity hounds?" He paused, scanning the room again. "Marissa?"

"Yeah…" answered a red-haired girl three rows over. "Why wouldn't you tell? I mean, if someone's breaking the law, they're breaking the law, and they should be punished."

He nodded. "Okay. Who else? James?"

"I think that's obvious," replied a deep, laconic voice behind me. "Like she said, this whole country is built on a set of rules and standards… if you can't follow them, then you gotta pay somehow. Let those rich fuckers rot in jail."

The professor raised an eyebrow. "Gotcha. Okay…" Dr. Marcus looked to the back of the room, and I somehow knew who he was about to call on. "Warren? Do you agree?"

There was a long pause before he answered. I struggled not to look back at him out of curiosity. "It depends," Warren finally said.

"What do you mean?"

"Enron employed twenty-one thousand people," Warren said, his voice bored and dry. "And when Sherron Watkins started its unraveling, twenty-one thousand people lost their jobs. Thousands lost their pensions and life savings. Whereas if Enron _hadn't_ been exposed, then they would still be employed and financially stable."

Funny, I hadn't _really_ thought about it that way before. Was it better to keep people in ignorant bliss? Or to be honest and ruin lives?

Marissa, the redhead who'd been called on first, gave an aggravated snort. "So, what, it's okay to keep money fraud covered up and let the guys in charge rip everyone off, so long as all the 'little people' get to keep their jobs? Are you saying that's fair?"

I had to turn and look this time. Warren didn't even look at her as he responded – he kept his gaze on the professor. "I'm not saying anything," he said. "It is what it is. There's no right answer."

I nodded slowly, thinking that statement over. That was the tricky thing about ethics – the fact that commonly held beliefs weren't always right… and yet they weren't always wrong, either. Interesting. At least the Worthington kid seemed to have some smarts. Or maybe just good debating skills.

"Figures he'd say that," Jonathan muttered. "That'll be _him_ one of these days."

I was a little put-off by his tone, but I could see where he was coming from. "Maybe, maybe not," I murmured.

Dr. Marcus walked back to his desk, picking up a stack of papers, and smiled. "And that's the key to this class, and to much of life in general, as you'll find out," he said, passing the sheets down each row. "Sometimes, there _is_ no right answer."


	5. Chapter 3: A Double Life

**A/N:** Hello again! I'm updating this story with breakneck speed right now (I'm generally known for being kind of slow, haha). Here is chapter three, which goes back to Warren's point of view. Next chapter is where it starts getting interesting, as Warren and Sera will finally be properly introduced and all that.

Thanks to all who reviewed the last chapter. Katemary77 is right on the money -- I always like to bring in the OC and establish her as a character before bringing in any romantic subplot. Which is kind of slow going, if you're an impatient sort (like I often am), but hopefully it will make the overall story read much better. :)

Anyway, enjoy!

* * *

**Chapter 3: A Double Life**

September 15, 2006  
_Warren_

I never thought I'd be known for anything other than being a Worthington.

Although I supposed my new identity didn't really count, since it had to be kept a secret. To the rest of the world, I was _still_ only known as the rich Worthington kid; though in _my_ mind, I'd become something else – a hero, of sorts. A guy who did good things… most of the time, anyway. My alter ego wasn't exactly respected (more often that not, feared), but I found that didn't matter much. I'd never really been respected before, anyway, not by a public that refused to believe that the affluent were capable of earning their own rewards.

I sat on the couch, quietly chewing on a grilled portabella sandwich. The six o'clock news was on, so rather than eating dinner in the kitchen, I'd come to the living room to finish my meal. I watched, rapt, while the solemn local news anchor reported the latest grand adventures of the individual they'd dubbed the "Avenging Angel" – me.

"…_no one knows where this person came from or his true identity, but the common theory is that he is a mutant. Those who he has rescued have all confirmed that the wings are organic, dispelling the myth of an invented, man-made flying mechanism…"_

My mouth curled up in a smirk when they cut to a bit of stock footage, a grainy, shaky shot taken by a local amateur who'd just happened to have a camera on him at the time. You had to look closely, but up in the top right corner you could see a small, dark speck, intermittently floating and diving through the air. The date in the corner read **07/30/06**, well over a month ago. I remembered that day. From high above, I'd seen a young girl being dragged towards a van by several burly, dirty men. A kidnapping. I'd put a stop to that quickly. Turns out wings make a very effective weapon, when used correctly. I'd heard urban legends about a swan's wings having the strength and toughness to break a human's arms – so imagine what kind of damage the strength and toughness of a full-grown _man's_ wings could inflict.

"_Most recently, witnesses say the Angel rescued a couple trapped on the Bronx Zoo's Skyride last night. The ride malfunctioned, leaving Daniel Carlson and Lisa Parker stranded at the highest above the city for more than ten hours while rescue teams attempted to figure out a way to safely retrieve them..." _

I frowned, stuffing the last of the sandwich into my mouth. I'd rescued that couple last night, though judging from their reactions I'd have been better off leaving them strung up there. They'd both recoiled in horror when I'd flown up to the hanging cab; the woman hid her face and shrieked while the man called me a 'half-eagle freak'. I'd thought about correcting him, seeing how my wing structure more resembled a hawk's than an eagle's, after all. But instead, I'd just shrugged and told the man that if they didn't want my help, I was fine leaving them up there. And that I hoped they enjoyed looking at the trees and park underneath for another ten hours while the rescue squad fumbled around with the fire truck ladders some more.

And at that, the woman had raised her head and looked at me with dismay. "No fucking _way_," she'd said. "Get me off of this thing." And that was that. I'd flown them down one at a time. And they didn't even say thank you. Ungrateful bastards.

"_In other news, the campaigns for midterm elections are now in full swing, and…"_ Grabbing the remote, I flipped off the news and stood up. The sun was going down; it would be time to fly soon.

**xxxxx**

I was having an off night. Ever have those days when you feel incredibly sluggish? Where you're completely unable to function?

As I soared above the city, I couldn't seem to catch my stride. My arms were sore, my back ached, and the bottom half of my wings were burning with the exertion. No matter how much I stretched or attempted to work out the soreness, my muscles remained tight. I'd only been out and about for twenty minutes, but I was ready to go home and call it a night.

_I'll bet this is because of that asshole yesterday,_ I thought. Holding the women in my rescues was never much of a problem. However, the man in the hanging cab – the one who'd called me a half-eagle freak – had been an extremely stocky, thick guy. I was sure that he weighed more than three hundred pounds at least, easily the largest person I'd had to save so far. I'd carried him down with only a little strain, which was surprising, but I was certainly feeling the after-effects of lifting that much weight today. I scowled, irritated that my efforts had gone unthanked _and_ caused me further discomfort. _Plus, he was wearing too much cologne. No wonder she wanted down so badly, I don't think I could have stood one hour in that close of a proximity to him, much less ten…_

I swooped down to the nearest rooftop to rest. I was soaked in sweat, and the cool breeze that fluttered through felt heavenly against my chest and sides.

I yanked off my mask, running my fingers over my damp hair. Once I'd decided to continue this 'hobby', the issue of identity concealment had come up. I'd lucked out with the fire, since I'd had the hat and my features had been covered with soot. But for other outings, I'd taken one of the workout shirts that I'd usually worn to fly, cut it up, and fashioned a mask to wear over my eyes and forehead. It served two purposes – one to cover my face, obviously, and another to keep my hair back. I'd decided to ditch the hat, realizing that the combination of a black hat and mask would make me look even creepier; like a criminal about to rob a bank. Instead, the mask had been cut high enough to push my hairline back a bit – so the blonde hair was exposed (giving more credence, of course, to the 'Angel' name I'd been given), but out of my face.

The mask, combined with the black shirt and pants I wore on my excursions, gave me an appearance that was more renegade than savior. It was all pretty ridiculous-looking, truth be told, but I had no real choice.

I walked to the edge of the roof, placing my hands on the cool concrete ledge, lost in thought. Maybe my bad night _was_ that guy's fault, or maybe I was just a little burned out. It was possible. My life had become so much busier in recent months, with the addition of three things – my regular Angel escapades, classes and study time, and my father's business dinners.

The latter was a joint idea from my parents, propositioned one evening when I'd gone home for a visit. Every couple of weekends, I would attend these soirees with them and observe the way business (i.e., 'schmoozing') was conducted in the 'real world'. Or at least, that was the pitch my mother had given to it. In reality, I knew it was going to serve several purposes. One being that it would get me out of the house and into some sort of social circle, and two being that the wealthy attendants of these dinners usually brought along their daughters to mix and mingle and mate. I was no fool. My mother wanted grandchildren, and since I obviously wasn't in any hurry to remedy that situation, she wasn't above using her famous name to help the process along. God, if she only knew.

This coming weekend held one of those dinners in store, and I wasn't looking forward to it in the least. I'd agreed to do them mainly to ease her concern about me, but the evenings were painfully boring and a test of my patience. Don't get me wrong, I enjoyed good (vegetarian) cuisine, fine wine, and even listening to a well-spoken conversation or debate amongst intellectuals. However, the dinners generally lacked all of that (except for the wine), and each time I was forced to sit and be polite to spoiled airheads who fancied themselves to be someone of importance.

And there looked to be no end in sight – after all, business was my life. Sweet talking and feigning interest in uninteresting people would be a big part of my job. Granted, the parade of WASPs could probably be stopped if I had a girlfriend, but still…

_I should just tell my parents that I'm gay,_ I thought sourly. _That would probably go over better than telling them I'm a mutant._

Great. I was getting an aching head to go along with my aching body.

In the distance, I heard the faint sounds of sirens wailing. Normally, I used those warnings as a guide, leading me to people in need. But tonight, I was too tired and cranky for any acts of heroism. Taking a deep breath, I lifted myself onto the ledge and jumped. Without bothering to put my mask back on, I headed away from the sirens, towards home.

**xxxxx**

I'd underestimated college. I'd thought it would be easier to deal with than high school – after all, I only had to go on campus for a few hours a day before returning back to the solitude of my apartment. I had figured hiding the wings for a few classes would be nothing compared to hiding them almost 24-7 at AllCott.

What I hadn't counted on, however, was all the attention, from students and professors alike. The first week had been the worst – in class after class, one roll call after another, I'd had to deal with the stares and questioning glances of my classmates. I had hoped that their curiosity would waver with time; that eventually I could blend in and become invisible again, but so far it wasn't happening. College was a new beginning, and there were thousands of students on campus who had no clue of my sullen past. People kept trying to come up to me, talk to me, get to know me. Especially the girls – they were a fierce, determined lot. I'd been asked out to lunches, dinners, movies, plays, concerts, and even once received a blatant proposal from a particularly bold young woman who promised a raunchy evening consisting of "you, me, a bottle of honey and one _hell_ of a mess." I'd been tempted to acquiesce to her, just to see if she'd follow through.

"Warren?" I looked up from my desk, realizing I'd stopped paying attention to Dr. Marcus several minutes ago. "Can you tell me what _altruism_ is?"

And that was another thing. In most of my classes, the professors were happy to simply give the lecture and get on with it. But not Dr. Marcus, oh, no. He had this thing about 'class participation' that drove me mad. I could pretty much bank on having to speak up and answer a question in every Ethics class, which in turn gave the rest of the students an excuse to turn around and watch me.

I cleared my throat. I'd discovered it was best to just give the shortest, most concise answer possible and let him move on. "Selfless concern for others," I said.

He nodded. "Mmm-hmmm. Contrasted with _egoism_, which is what, Deidre?"

"Doing something that only serves yourself," the girl replied. Then she turned her head, met my eyes, and gave me a wink. Deidre was a buxom strawberry blonde who had coyly asked me to dinner at Abuelo's last week. I'd replied no, that I was busy, hoping she'd take the hint. However, it appeared as though she hadn't. Shit.

I averted my eyes, instead pulling out a slip of paper and scribbling on it, as if I was taking notes. Dr. Marcus had launched into a discussion concerning the terms he'd just had everyone define, and I knew I was in for a slow forty-five minutes. I suppressed a yawn, wondering if the man ever got tired of just _talking_. Whatever happened to handing out assignments and quizzes? Every class, he insisted on having discussions, debates, conversations, symposiums… I closed my eyes, mind drifting elsewhere.

A little while later, I checked my watch and saw that there was only five minutes left of class. I was getting quite good at zoning out for large periods of time, which I figured probably wasn't a positive trend.

"But I don't know, I think you can argue that altruism doesn't really exist," spoke up a girl with dark brown hair, startling me back from oblivion. I blinked, trying to piece together what the class had been discussing. Altruism and egoism, right.

"No, Sera? Why not?" Dr. Marcus leaned against the front of his desk, giving her an encouraging smile. She was in the next row and several seats in front of me, so I couldn't see her face.

"Because… think about it. Is it possible to ever do something that truly _only_ ever serves another?" She paused, leaning back in her chair and holding her arms up in a questioning fashion. Her hair was long and stick-straight; it touched the desktop of the guy who was sitting behind her. If I was him, that would've driven me nuts. "You always get _something_ out of helping others."

I frowned. I didn't think I agreed with that. After all, what was I gaining, really, with my job as a rescuer? I didn't get paid, plenty of people thought the Angel was a sick freak, and it wasn't like anyone had asked me to do it in the first place. I'd simply chosen to do it because I had the means and I was capable of helping others.

Apparently, a few in the class disagreed, as well. "What about people who donate to charity?" countered a guy sitting in the corner. "Like anonymous donations? That way, they _can't_ get anything in return."

"What about Mother Teresa or other people like that?" asked another girl.

"What about little random acts of kindness? Like holding the door open for someone, or helping them pick up papers that have scattered all over the floor?"

The dark-haired girl, Sera, held up her hand. "I never said that you have to get material things out of helping others," she said. Her voice was husky and heavily-accented. She must have been from the south. "Sometimes rewards are intangible. The donation to charity? The donor could probably get a tax write-off. Mother Teresa and others of her ilk are working for God – thus, their reward is Heaven and eternal life, since that's what they believe. And as for random acts of kindness – well, don't you think it makes someone feel _good_ to help? Isn't that what people always say, when asked why they choose to do anything for others, such as community service? That essentially, it gives them the warm fuzzies? That sense of comfort and accomplishment can be considered its own reward."

I felt my face burn, remembering the drug-like rush of exhilaration and pride I'd enjoyed after saving the girl from the dorm fire. How I'd decided right then to use my mutation to serve that purpose. And how every time I came home after saving someone, I found it a little easier to sleep at night. It was true, I _sought out_ that feeling. So much for fancying myself an unselfish hero; she had a point. Damn her.

"And in that sense, that can be an argument for the 'myth' of altruism." Sera laughed, shrugging her shoulders as she finished her point. She glanced around at the classmates who'd protested, and I caught a glimpse of her profile, which was lit up with a grin. "But, you know, it's just a theory."

Dr. Marcus clapped his hands together. "Excellent discussion, that's what I like to hear. And I'd love to keep this topic going, but we're out of time today…" He beckoned to the ancient white clock in the back of the classroom. "…so have a good weekend, everyone. And remember that next week we're starting the debate project, so you'll need to pick your partners by next Wednesday."

As the class filed out, I sighed inwardly. Things were decidedly not looking up. I wasn't sure yet how I would get out of doing that group project – spending lots of one-on-one time with others wasn't something I was too keen on – but I had a few days to figure it out. I lowered my head, staring at the floor as I followed the mass of students out into the hall.

"Warren? Warren?" I heard the voice behind me, recognizing it as one of the girls who'd spoken up a few times during the discussion... the girl, who, as I'd predicted, hadn't been able to get the hint the first time around. Deidre, who had a voice that sounded like a cross between Minnie Mouse and Fran Drescher. "Hey, Warren, wait up, I want to ask you something…"

_God, not again. Not today. Not right now. I just want to go home_. Ignoring her pleas, I lengthened my strides and exited the building as quickly as possible.

**xxxxx**

I don't mind wearing suits. In fact, I actually like them, even now with the wings. Growing up, I'd always admired the way my father looked in his tailored, pinstriped Gucci business attire. It was such a sharp contrast to the sweats and t-shirts he wore when lounging around at home. In that casual wear, he was just Dad, the simple, outdoorsy man who taught me to ride a bike and used to fly kites with me in our backyard. In the suit, he was Warren Worthington, Jr., a tough, no-nonsense businessman who commanded a small army of corporate drones and took no bullshit. The transformation was comparable to that of Clark Kent and Superman, and I'd often wondered if I'd be able to do the same. If I'd be able to project that image of cool, controlled confidence.

As I slid on my sleek, black Versace jacket, I decided I had my answer. An Italian designer's craft could work wonders on _any_ man; or mutant, for that matter. Appraising my reflection in the mirror, I nodded slowly, adjusting my tie and collar. In this lavish get-up, with my wings tightly tucked away under my crisp white shirt and the fine fabric of the jacket, I felt almost normal. And that was a good thing – if I had to go and be miserable for several hours, I figured I might as try and enjoy the small positives of the situation.

After a final once-over in the mirror, I flipped off the bathroom light and headed downstairs. I grabbed the keys to the Spyder from the kitchen counter and sent a quick, frantic prayer to God, asking Him to help me make it through another exasperating Saturday night.

**xxxxx**

"Ah, Mr. Foster… I don't believe you've met my son. Warren, this is Elliott Foster, co-founder of Initech Designs. Elliott, this is Warren the third."

I plastered on my best facsimile of a smile and held out my hand for a shake. We were downtown in the exclusive LaFayette Club, waiting for dinner to be served. My mother had wandered off to chat with some women she recognized from previous outings, so my father had taken the opportunity to introduce me to some of his peers.

The peer in question, Elliott Foster, gripped my proffered hand tightly. He was a thin, wiry man, with a balding crown and sleek black-rimmed glasses. "Good to meet you, Warren," he said in a deep voice that belied his appearance. "I hear you're every bit as brilliant as your father."

"I can only hope," I replied easily. It might have sounded odd to many, but socializing with older people in this context wasn't nearly as difficult as doing so with people my own age. Maybe it was because I'd been informally 'trained', I guess you could say, in the art of smooth talking with older generations. It was a little like acting – you pretended to care about what the other person was saying, then responded accordingly. Everyone knew their roles, and when to enter or leave a scene. I could handle the predictability and familiarity of it. People my age, on the other hand, were capricious. Volatile.

"Yes, Warren got into Sydney Williams on a full scholarship," my father said with pride. He was standing close to me, and put his hand lightly on my shoulder for the briefest second. I managed not to flinch, knowing that the moment wouldn't last long. Unlike his wife, Warren Jr. wasn't a touchy-feely kind of guy. He preferred to show his affection in other ways. "Didn't even need any help from us," he continued. "His motivation amazes even _me_, Elliott – you know when I was his age, I was always distracted by other things, like parties and girls… took awhile for me to get my act together and get serious. But Warren here, he's a real go-getter."

It was intended to be a compliment – and the way he was talking me up made me a little suspicious, really – but hearing those words made me feel awful. I _was_ abnormal, and he knew it, though he'd never mentioned it directly (leaving that task to my mother, I assumed). But in true business fashion, he'd taken a negative – my anti-social behavior – and dressed it up in the guise of 'hard work' and 'dedication' to my studies. Which was, interestingly enough, the same pitch I'd given to _him_ back in high school. The apple never falls far from the tree, indeed.

I gripped the glass of wine in my hand, worried for a second that I might unwittingly smash the fragile crystal between my fingertips. I turned my head for a moment, staring wistfully out of the glass windows that doubled as the outside walls of the room. The sun was still out, barely, washing the cityscape with a faint gold hue. Was it bad that I would have much preferred to be out there basking in the glow of the fading sun than in the glow of my father's pride? I stretched my neck, squirming a little. The bandages wound around my torso were beginning to feel a little too tight.

_The evening's halfway over… come on, you can handle this._ I took a long sip of my Chteau Latour Pauillac before I spoke again. "Well," I finally said, "I guess I just find it easier to stay focused on a goal and get it done."

Mr. Foster nodded vigorously, in evident approval. "That's good to hear, and that kind of attitude will serve you well in this industry." He paused, giving my father a meaningful look before turning back to me. "But you know, you should always make time for a _little_ fun, especially when you're young…"

I held my glass still, mid-sip. I recognized that tone. "That _is_ true," my father agreed readily, not helping matters any. I frantically glanced around, eager to make eye contact with anyone, looking for an escape. I knew what was coming next.

"Warren," Mr. Foster said, holding out his arm. He gave me a sly smile, and I sensed some unspoken connection between him and my father. I'd been set up. "Why don't you come with me for a second? There's someone I'd like to introduce you to…"

Oh, fuck me.

**xxxxx**

Julianna Foster was nineteen, heartbreakingly gorgeous, an avid tennis player, and an aspiring pediatrician. She had just started her second year at Stanford, where she was a member of the Upsilon chapter of Delta Gamma. In her spare time, she liked to read, watch Humphrey Bogart movies, and cook. And as the youngest of Elliott Foster's three daughters, she was the only one unmarried and single.

And fortunately for me, she resented being put up for sale by her parents just as much as I did.

I knew all this because Elliott Foster had introduced me to his youngest and then quickly disappeared, content that the two of us would hit it off. We had made some awkward, forced small talk for a few minutes, and when it was announced that dinner was ready, walked together into the formal dining room. The light was dim in the room, as the crystal chandeliers above didn't give off much to begin with, and the dark-blue and gold scheme seemed to absorb what little was there. _I_ had no problem seeing, of course, but I wondered if the other patrons did.

I'd planned to leave Julianna behind and go sit with my parents. But when I met my mother's eyes and noticed the way they lit up at seeing me with a beautiful young woman, I'd resigned myself to sitting with her for the meal. And it wasn't that she was bland, or boring, or annoying. Not by far – of all the girls I'd been introduced to in this fashion, she was perhaps the most tolerable option. That is, if I were capable of _having_ options. But it was embarrassing to be thrust in her face in such an obvious manner.

And she made it clear that she felt the same towards me. She had quickly established right up-front that she was _not_ interested in any form or fashion. She already had a boyfriend back at Stanford, a writer, whom her parents didn't approve of. They'd been dating for well over a year, but her father was still convinced she'd 'see the light' and ditch him.

"But let's humor them this evening," she'd said when we'd sat down at the end of one long table. "I have the feeling it will take some of the heat off _your_ back as much as it will mine."

I'd agreed, and we sat on opposite sides of the table, keeping a respectable distance while listening to the conversations all around us. Julianna and I were on the tail end, but bookending us on the other side was another couple that I didn't recognize. The woman had sleek salt-and-pepper hair pulled tightly into a bun, and judging by the unnatural smoothness of her skin, had undergone several cosmetic surgeries. The man was on the chubby side, with an obvious toupee and an ill-fitting jacket. They introduced themselves as Mr. and Mrs. Richard Donnelly, owners of the husband-and-wife partnership law firm bearing their names.

Dinner was a choice between filet mignon or grilled salmon with saffron rice. Not exactly vegetarian-friendly, but I made it by on the meat-free side dishes: the roasted new potatoes, steamed vegetable medley, and Caesar salad. I ate slowly, letting my stomach fill up. I got a few curious glances when I pushed the meat aside and ate around it, but no one commented.

Later on in the evening, when the men's stomachs were full of food and wine, and their heads full of self-important bravado, the conversation became a little more loose. At our table, the discussion bounced back forth between menial subjects like sports and films, to graver topics concerning politics and societal issues. I marginally paid attention for the most part, until the dialogue switched to a matter that struck a little too close to home for me.

"Have you heard of this geneticist from India? Dr. Kavita Rao, I believe is her name…" Mrs. Donnelly leaned back in her chair, holding her wine glass close to her face and swirling it in a small circle. She was the type who liked attention, I'd gathered. Her exaggerated body language and mannerisms said it all. I looked up at her, sticking a bit of zucchini in my mouth. "I was reading about her in _Newsweek_ magazine. Supposedly, she's invented a _cure_ for mutations."

I choked.

Julianna gave me an odd look. "Are you okay, Warren?" she asked. I hastily grabbed my water glass and took a long draw.

"Fine, I'm fine. Sorry, it was just… spicier than I expected," I offered. I gave Mrs. Donnelly a tight-lipped smile. "And I'm sorry, I didn't hear what you said."

"Oh, I was just saying that this Dr. Rao claims she's invented a cure for mutants. A serum, administered by injection," she said. "It's not been approved, I hear, but apparently very close."

"About time," sniffed her husband, shaking out his napkin and folding it beside his empty plate. "I'd have thought science would have come up with a solution to that problem ages ago."

I ignored him. A _cure_? I took a deep breath, straining to maintain my composure. I had to set my water down; my hands had begun shaking uncontrollably, making the ice tinkle against the glass.

"Oh?" I said. "What… what does this serum _do_, exactly?"

"Oh, I don't know the specifics," Mrs. Donnelly replied. "Something to do with negating the X-gene. It's supposed to remove any physical _or_ mental manifestation permanently." She smiled then, an odd sort of smirk that chilled me. I set my hands in my lap, clasping them tightly together. "Whatever the method, I imagine this cure will be in high demand."

Julianna visibly shivered, setting her fork at an angle on her plate to indicate she was finished. She tossed a long red lock of hair behind her shoulder, sitting up straight. "I hope so," she said, watching casually as a waiter swooped in to collect her dishes.

I looked at her with dismay, unable to control my next question. "Why?" I asked, the word popping out before I'd had time to censor it. I'd actually kind of liked Julianna, she'd seemed like a girl with a decent head on her shoulders, at least. A part of me felt betrayed by her disdain, even though I knew I should have expected it.

"Why?" She met my gaze unwaveringly. "Because those people… those _creatures_ are dangerous," she said. "My sister and her husband had their house destroyed last year in a mass attack on her neighborhood… this mutant, he… he created this huge tremor, like an earthquake, and split every house in the area along the faultline…"

"One broke into my father's home," spoke up a man who'd been sitting on the other side of Mr. Donnelly, and apparently listening in on our conversation. "And stole twenty-thousand dollars in bonds along with my mother's diamond necklaces. He had this… this gigantic, long tongue, like a frog, and they said that he was climbing on the walls…"

I stared down at the pristine white tablecloth while the rest of them recounted every encounter – or near-encounter – they'd had with mutants. Burglary. Attempted rape. Assault. Destruction of private property. The list went on and on, and the more they talked about it, the more vicious they became in their hatred of mutantkind. I wanted to protest, to remind them that _humans_ did those exact same things every day… and I knew that for a fucking _fact_, because I personally saw it myself. What was the difference between a human with a loaded gun and a mutant who could control bolts of electricity, for example? A weapon was a weapon, regardless of how it was procured…

I waited and waited for someone to bring up a positive, to mention a mutant that had helped them or someone they knew in some way – or hell, even a mention of the do-gooder Avenging Angel who was featured in a highlight reel on the news every week – but none came. I'd always known mutants were disliked and looked down upon as freaks, but this level of unbridled animosity was shocking. Somewhere along the line, these people had equated mutations with evil, and nothing would sway their set opinions.

But _I_ was a mutant, and despite acting like a jerk in the name of self-preservation, I _wasn't_ a bad guy. And surely there had to be others out there just like me, hiding because of fear. I felt a well of despair inside; my wings again felt heavy and oppressive against my back. If they'd known who – _what_ – they were talking to, they probably would have lynched me right there.

I wanted to go home. Immediately.

"So, yes," Mrs. Donnelly spoke up again after several long minutes of mutant-bashing. "This cure, if it works, will be a Godsend."

_Yes, I suppose it will, for people like you… _

I closed my eyes.

…_and perhaps for me, as well_…

Discrimination aside, my mind reeled with the idea that I could one day soon have the option of being normal. Amputation I'd completely dismissed, but this 'cure' sounded more like… well, a treatment, not an alteration. I could get rid of my wings, become the active, enthusiastic young man I used to be, repair my life…

But would I? _Could_ I? I'd gotten used to flying, _loved_ it, in fact… and I liked helping people, regardless of whether it was for an altruistic or egoist reason (damn that girl from class). I suddenly wasn't so sure if I could bring myself to go back…

"Cure?" A new voice entered the conversation, and I turned immediately. My father stood behind me, an easygoing smile on his face. He met my eyes and winked, leaning down. "Just thought I'd check on you two, see what was happening on this end of the table," he murmured in my ear.

"We're fine, thanks," I mumbled. Another lie.

"We're discussing this alleged mutant cure," Julianna said. "Have you heard of it, Mr. Worthington?"

My father stepped forward and stood beside me. "Heard of it?" he repeated. "Of course. We've donated quite a large sum to Dr. Rao's labs in the past few years to help fund the research."

I sharply sucked in my breath, unable to hide my shock. "What? You have? When?"

My father nodded, his face grave. I wasn't sure if it was the lighting in the room, or the angle with which I was looking at him, but he appeared older to me all of a sudden. I'd never noticed the small jowls forming around his neckline, or the wrinkles back by his temples. His hair had gone gray years ago, but it seemed starker tonight, more severe.

"Yeah," he said casually, as if that was common knowledge. "You were away at school when we made the decision, Warren, so that's probably why you weren't aware." He looked up again, addressing the rest of the table. "We felt it was an important cause. Science has been working on a solution to the mutant problem for years, but Dr. Rao's lab was the first to really make headway on the answer."

"Oh," I whispered. _I was away at school, becoming a mutant, while you were funneling money to some quack doctor in India to eliminate mutants…_ the irony wasn't even amusing. Not in the least. I'd always known my parents would have been horrified at having a mutant for a son, but this new bit of knowledge was like the final nail in the proverbial coffin. My mother and father didn't just dislike mutants, they _hated_ them. Enough to donate large sums of money to further their demise.

He put his hand on my shoulder again, and his words echoed in my mind: _mutant problem. Solution. Important cause._ This time, I couldn't help it – I twitched and pulled away. He didn't seem to notice. "I've been told they're planning to market it here, when testing is finished and it's approved," he said to the table. "Sooner rather than later."

My tablemates let out a hearty exclamation of relief at that news. My father stayed and chatted for a few moments longer, thankfully switching the subject, but I couldn't even muster the energy to act like I cared anymore. When a waiter arrived with a dessert tray, he excused himself back to his own table, giving me an approving wink as he left. I didn't acknowledge it, instead watching the waiter slide rich creations of cake and custard onto the table for each diner.

"And for you, sir?" the waiter asked. "Tonight, we have traditional French crème brulee or a moist, tart Raspberry Liqueur cake…"

"No, thanks," I said, holding up my hand. The waiter bowed and moved on to another table.

"You're not getting anything?" Julianna asked, incredulous. "Oh, you should at least _taste_ this, Warren, it's so decadent…" She sliced off a bit of her custard and held it up, beckoning me to try.

I gently pushed the fork away. I swallowed, feeling more depressed than I had in quite some time. _Mutant problem. Solution. Important cause._

"No," I said quietly. "I'm not hungry."


	6. Chapter 4: Of Vodka and Vegetarians

**A/N:** Here's chapter four. It ended up being a little longer than I expected. My OC and Warren have officially (and briefly) been introduced now, so from here on out they'll have a lot more interaction. I wanted to see Warren's perspective on getting to know her first, however, which is why I kept their conversation in this chapter brief. Next chapter, he'll have a lot to say about it. :)

Thank you all for your reviews! If you ever have any questions/comments/observations/etc don't hesitate to tell me. Happy reading!

* * *

**Chapter 4: Of Vodka and Vegetarians**

September 20, 2006  
_Sera_

Despite what movies such as _Cocktail_ and _Coyote Ugly_ might insinuate, working at a bar is not a non-stop whirlwind of parties and pretty faces. There's no spontaneous dancing on the barroom counter, no jukebox sing-a-longs, no witty repartee between the bartenders and patrons.

Sprawling fistfights amongst out-of-shape drunks, however, are a dime a dozen. I shook my head, watching my boss, Andrew, act as mediator between two young men who'd just gotten into a heated argument over whether Farrah Fawcett or Cameron Diaz made the hotter Charlie's Angel. It might have sounded trivial – well, it _was_ – but it's amazing the issues that are of utter importance when you're under the influence of 160 proof rum.

Andrew was a big, stocky guy with broad shoulders, a voice that resembled a pitchfork over gravel, and hands large enough to palm a basketball. He'd worked as a bouncer before saving up enough to buy his own establishment, so he was a professional disperser of clashes and never had much of a problem stopping a fight. I craned my neck, trying to get a better look at the proceedings. The two guys were sitting on opposite sides of the table, sullen looks on their faces as Andrew lectured. Aaaah, good. He'd subdued them for the time being, so it appeared everything was under control once again.

I walked around the corner of the counter to wash my hands. Truthfully, working at McCarthy's wasn't a bad job, drunken idiots aside. When I'd first moved to New York, desperate to find a means of income, Andrew Tonning had been my savior. He'd originally hired me on as a waitress, just someone to work the floor and keep the customers – mostly men – supplied with beer and hot wings. But since I'd proven myself to be a reliable, hard worker – something that was apparently rare in this day and age – he'd taken me under his wing and taught me a little about bartending. It was a more stressful job, but it meant bigger tips in fewer hours. Plus, I'd discovered, the customers were much nicer to me, eager to stay on my good side so that I'd keep the drinks coming at a timely pace.

Once I'd cleaned up, I yawned, leaning against the wall and surveying the room. The place was a dump, that much was for sure – but in a fun sort of way. It was what any self-respecting _real_ bar should look like. The few tables in the room consisted of upturned barrels with heavy slats of wood on top, there was a long, thin counter that lined the opposite wall, some stools scattered here and there, and of course, the main bar where drinks were made. There was one old TV up in the corner that showed snow just as often as actual programming, and the lighting inside was almost non-existent. It wasn't a place where people came to have dinner, or watch the Yankees game, or catch up on old times with friends; it was a place created solely for drinking.

"Did you get those two fanboys calmed down?" I asked when Andrew returned to the counter. He responded with a set of rolled eyes.

"Yeah, for now," he said in his usual gruff way. "Though if they start up again I'm gonna have to kick their asses out. I ain't got time for this shit." He paused, giving me an apologetic look. Andrew, despite his daunting, masculine appearance, possessed a very charming set of puppy-dog brown eyes. "'Scuse my French, Sera."

I chuckled, dismissing him with a wave. "I work in a _bar_, Drew, and not a very pretty one, at that. I'm used to it."

"You sayin' my bar's ugly?" he asked, grinning. "What, you think we ought to revamp this place? Get some real furniture, give it a paint job, nail up some cheesy road signs and shit on the walls?"

I laughed loudly. "No, no… it has a certain _ambience_ to it. It's perfect. The Irish would be proud."

He snorted. "As they should be." He cast a quick glance around the room. "Pretty slow tonight."

I nodded absentmindedly. Wednesdays were always slow. During the weekends, the small bar was filled to capacity, crammed shoulder-to-shoulder with men and women eager to temporarily forget about their jobs or spouses or what have you. Mondays were filled with white-collar workers bemoaning the beginning of their 9-to-5 work week, Tuesday nights we offered two-for-one draft Budweisers, and Thursdays the college students poured in, ready to cram in one frantic night of partying before heading home for the weekend.

But Wednesdays? Empty. Which meant a slow night, no tips, and a lot of boredom.

"Yeah," I said, dragging the word out on a sigh. I heard the door clatter closed, and turned my attention to the newest customer to enter. He walked up to place an order, and I instantly recognized him. Medium height, thick build, dark complexion, and being one of the hairiest guys I'd ever laid eyes on, he was kind of unforgettable. He always ordered a pair of Molson Black Ices to start his tab, smoked a few cigars, and sat off to the side by himself, brooding silently. He'd never given me any trouble, though, so I wasn't put off by his behavior. So long as the guys kept to themselves, I didn't ask questions.

"Hey there," I said cheerfully. I didn't know his name, only his preferences. "Black Ices, right?"

The right corner of his mouth quirked up in just the tiniest hint of a smile, almost eerily akin to watching a wolf bare its teeth. "You got it."

He collapsed in a stool on the end of the counter, apprising the rest of the bar with one long glance. I scurried to the clear glass refrigerators back against the wall, pulling out two of the dark brown bottles and popping off the caps. I gave him a smile as I slid the two beers onto the counter in front of him. "Need anything else?"

"Not at the moment." He acknowledged me with a short nod before grabbing the first bottle and taking a long swig. Ugh – I didn't know what he found so appealing about Black Ice, I'd tried it before and had promptly decided it tasted like cat piss. But then, I figured the higher alcohol content probably had something to do with it. Most men who came in here would have been willing to drink _actual_ cat piss if there was a promise of it getting them smashingly drunk.

I strolled back over to stand by Andrew, straining to see the wall clock in the dim light. Almost nine. My shift ended at midnight, so I had a ways to go. I folded my arms, suppressing a yawn. The two of us stood silently side-by-side for several minutes before Andrew spoke again.

"I think I'm gonna run over to Jalapeno's for something to eat," he said. "I'm starving. You think you can handle this place for a few minutes while I'm gone?"

I surveyed the near-empty room, smirking. "Yeah. I think so."

"I figured." He started towards the backroom, then stopped, giving me a questioning look. "You want anything?"

Actually, a couple of messy chicken burritos sounded really good. "Sure," I said. "Get me the burrito trio. With chicken, not steak." I started to follow him. "Hey, I'll get you some money, let me get my purse—"

"Nah, I got it, Sera, don't worry about it." He disappeared through the door, his voice carrying through. "I'll be back in a few."

"Okay," I called back. Walking back to the counter, I paused, drumming my fingers on the counter. Three hours to kill…

_I guess I could do a little cleaning… clean the fingerprints off the windows, maybe dust the shelves in the back…_

I wrinkled my nose. The backroom was chaos piled on top of a train wreck, all covered with a fine layer of dust. Andrew kept claiming that he would get it cleaned up one of these days, but I had my doubts. But regardless, I dismissed that option on the grounds that I would have to leave the front unattended to work on it. The windows, however, were in plain view of the register, so I opted for that. Grabbing a bottle of Windex and some paper towels, I headed up front.

The door clattered shut again, and I gave a preoccupied hello to the man who strolled inside. Cleaning windows was one of those thankless, menial little tasks that you knew you'd be doing again in a half-hour after some guy pressed his face or other part of his anatomy up against the glass. Ah, well. At least it was a good way to burn fifteen minutes.

The man had gone to the counter, so I quickly finished up, wiped off my hands, and trotted back to take his order. The counter was empty, the Black Ice guy was nowhere to be seen. I wasn't perturbed – he appeared and disappeared regularly during his visits here, but he always paid his tab, so it wasn't a problem.

"Hey, can I help you?" I asked the newcomer, sliding around the corner and slapping my hands down on the tabletop. He was very plain; thin brown hair peeking out under a dark cap, flushed skin, tiny, dark eyes. He didn't respond immediately, instead giving me a hard, fixed look. I furrowed my brow in confusion.

"Well, we have a _huge_ selection of beer, both imported and domestic…" I continued. "Thirty-seven different kinds on tap, if that's your preference…" I trailed into silence. There was something _off_ about this guy.

I backed away, an uneasy feeling deep in my gut. "Well, when you decide, just give me a shout," I said. I suddenly wished Andrew would get back soon, and not just because I was craving those burritos. I turned and started to walk down to the far end of the counter, intending to throw away the empty Black Ice bottles that had been left behind.

"Wait." The word came out sharp, clipped. "Hey, don't turn your back on me. Get back here."

I halted, slowly spinning to face the man. "Can I help you?"

"Come here," he said, his voice deadly quiet. I moved towards him with tentative baby steps, my blood rushing like ice through my veins. When I was standing directly in front of him, he nodded. "We're going to make this quick, and we're gonna make it simple. Give me everything in the register."

I blinked. "What?"

"Give me everything in the register," he repeated evenly. Maybe it was because I'd never been trained what to do in this sort of situation, much less actually _face_ it, but my brain blanked out and I simply froze. What? Was I being _robbed_!

"My manager's in the back," I suddenly lied. "He'll see you on the security camera."

He stared me down, unblinking. "Your manager's down the street, waiting in line for Mexican food," he said, his words beginning to take on an angrier, choppier cadence. "I watched him go myself." I felt my eyes widen.

_He's been staking us out… waiting for the right moment to come in here…_

After being caught in my lie, I just stood there awkwardly, feeling a deep, hot flush of dread spread to my neck and further up. When it became evident that I wasn't going to move, he slowly pulled his right hand from his pocket – revealing a small, but nevertheless terrifying pistol. My mouth fell open; I sucked in my breath sharply.

"Here's how it is. If you scream, I'll shoot you," he said, his voice still that low, disquieting calm. He kept the pistol close to his side, so it wouldn't be seen by anyone else. "So don't make a scene. Don't even _look_ at anyone else but me, you got it? Just open the register and hand me everything inside and you'll be okay."

"Okay," I whispered. I struggled not to cast a furtive glance around the room, silently begging someone to stand up and take notice. But the guys in the far front – the Charlie's Angels fans and the rest of their crew – were both deep in rowdy conversation, and the Black Ice guy who'd been at the end of the bar was still nowhere in sight.

I opened the register slowly, trying to be as discreet as humanly possible. "Hurry the fuck up," he hissed. "And don't forget your apron. I see what you've got in there." I swallowed, fighting back tears and forcing myself not to look at the gun. My hands were shaking uncontrollably as I yanked the night's tips from my apron and collected the stacks of bills from the drawer, pressing them all together and setting the piles on the opposite side of the register where no one but us could see. It wasn't nearly as much as we could make on a truly busy night, but there was easily five-hundred or so there. He quickly snatched up the little piles, stuffing them inside his coat. I gently closed the register drawer and stepped back, waiting for him to make the next move.

I thought he would leave. He had the money and he'd performed the entire operation without being caught. In theory, what more could you want? I nervously grabbed on to the hem of my apron, my fists clenched.

Suddenly his expression changed, one corner of his lip curling into an infuriating smirk. I knew by that look of complete arrogance that he wasn't done just yet.

"The Armadale," he said then, beckoning behind me with his head. He leaned against the counter, looking casual and relaxed, like he was requesting a special kind of mixed drink. "And the Jewel of Russia."

"Wha—what?" I glanced behind me, confused. Vodka?

He glared, clearly displeased with my bewilderment. "Give me those bottles."

_You're stealing Vodka now! Are you serious? You can't just go **buy** some with the money you've just stolen?_

Instead of voicing my disbelief, I just nodded, numb. I turned and walked to the back wall, inwardly screaming at my hands to stop trembling. Armadale and Jewel of Russia were expensive brands, literally "top-shelf". I had to strain and carefully reach to retrieve them, taking it extra-slow and praying to God that someone, _anyone_, would walk in and put an end to the proceedings. I wondered how he planned on leaving the bar unnoticed if he was carrying several large 40-ounce bottles of high-end vodka under his arms. It wasn't exactly a run-of-the-mill purchase, and surely _someone_ would notice by the time he got out on the street…

"Hurry up," he said, his voice seething with rage. His agitation was escalating with each precious second. "I know what you're doing, you bitch. I'll fucking blow your head off if you don't quit wasting time."

_Oh God…_

I held the bottles tight by my side and turned around. "Okay," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "What do you—"

_SNIKT!_

I heard the noise, but my thoughts didn't immediately process what had happened. My first reaction was to scream and drop the vodka bottles, all four of the ones I'd lifted from the shelf. They hit the wood floor with terrific crash, startling both the man currently robbing me and the group of drunk guys way up front. It did _not_, however, startle the guy who'd previously been at the end of the bar; Black Ice man had returned. And he was presently cozied next to the criminal and holding what appeared to be a trifecta of razor-sharp knives in his face. _Long_ knives, far more deadly-looking than any kind I'd ever seen.

"Not so fast, bub," Black Ice growled. No one moved, no one spoke – everyone was staring at the enormous blades being held inches from the man's throat. I was only barely conscious of the fact that the robber still had his gun pointed at _me_.

The air felt still, heavy, and I was absolutely, positively _certain_ I was going to faint.

_I can't believe this is happening…_

The boys up front were also frozen, like statues with their eyes saucer-wide, looking like they wanted nothing more than to run screaming from the building without ever glancing back. Then, I looked – _really_ looked – at Black Ice's hands. I blinked once, my mind slowly grappling with the visual in front of me.

_Those aren't knives, they're embedded in his skin… like… like claws…_

And then, it clicked.

_Oh, sweet Jehovah, he has **metal claws** coming out of his hands…_

"You—you're," I stuttered. I didn't know what was more terrifying – the man with the Colt .45, or the man with the strange, claw-like appendages. "You're a—"

I stopped when I heard a door in the back open, and footsteps followed, disrupting the silence of the bar. Still, no one moved. And then Andrew walked up front, dropping the cartons of food in the floor in his shock the same way I'd dropped the bottles. I realized then that he wasn't seeing the whole picture. He'd just walked in on what appeared to be a man (no, a _mutant_), threatening another man in his bar…

"What—what the _hell_ is going on here?" he shouted. I cringed, just _waiting_ for the robber to be startled by something else and accidentally pull the trigger. "Put the knives down!"

So Andrew hadn't really _looked_ yet, either. "I—I—I don't think he can…" I stumbled over my speech; words felt huge and thick in my mouth. But he didn't hear. None of them did.

"I _can't_," Black Ice seethed. He looked angry, his hair disheveled, pointy, and standing on end.

"Put them down, son. Put them down or I'm calling the police."

Black Ice glowered. "_Fine_."

_SNIKT!_

The claws disappeared, instantaneously retracting up into his arms, and I felt my stomach lurch. And then, I did precisely what I'd predicted I would do earlier.

I passed out.

**xxxxx**

"You were threatened with a gun, robbed, almost sliced to pieces, and then you _passed out_! Sera! Oh my God!" Randi's voice had reached a fever pitch, and I was beginning to regret telling her my near-death experience in the first place. She had a tendency to get details a little messed up, and I could only imagine what the story would become by the time she told Dylan. She was like the personification of the children's game Operator.

I sighed. "Not quite, I wasn't almost 'sliced to pieces', he wasn't even trying to—"

She interrupted, squawking through the phone at me. "I don't know why you work at that shithole, anyway! I know there's somewhere nicer and at least _safer_ that you could go…"

I rubbed my temples. I'd gotten home very late last night – nearly three in the morning. After I'd passed out, apparently, the police had been called, the criminal detained, and because of Andrew's staunch anti-mutant policy, the clawed man had been kicked out of the bar before the cops even arrived. I'd been awakened with smelling salts by an officer who'd arrived first, and then spent several hours at the station giving my side of the story. I wasn't sure how much help I was, really. All in all, the previous evening was a blur, with only a few distinct visuals sticking to my memory. Guns. Terror. Vodka. Dizziness.

And claws. Sweet Jehovah, _claws_.

"…and I'll see if maybe they'd be willing to give you a job at Le Deauville, I mean, you'd probably get less pay at first, but—"

I closed my eyes. I'd been understandably too exhausted to call anyone and relay my tale when I'd gotten home last night. So this morning on the way to campus I'd called the Cox twins, intending to speak to Dylan first, as he was the level-headed of the two. But he'd already gone to work, and Randi had answered. I'd reluctantly told her, so my entire ride to school had been punctuated by her gasps and shrieks of disbelief.

But I had class in ten minutes, and now was no time to get into any new debate over my current place of employment. _That_ could last another half-day or more. "The hours are good, the pay is good, and I like my boss," I said, cutting her off. "It was an isolated incident. Who says Le Deauville isn't going to get held up one of these days? You never know." I paused, yanking open the door to Ginger Hall. "I'm keeping the job."

"SERA! But—"

"I have to go. Class. I'll call you two later, okay?" I took the stairs two at a time, rushing to the classroom. She started to sputter, and I managed a smile. "Bye, Randi."

"Don't you hang up on—"

I folded the phone shut, switched it to silent, and slid it into the front pocket of my backpack. The door to the classroom was closed, and I could hear that Dr. Marcus was already well into his lecture. I cringed – I was never late for class, and found it annoying when students waltzed in ten minutes tardy and interrupted the lecture. But truthfully, I thought it amazing that I'd made it to class, period. I had skipped Accounting this morning, because… well, because frankly, after nearly being killed last night and being interviewed by the police until the early hours of the morning, I just couldn't bring myself to get out of bed that early. My conscientious side had taken over after that, however, and wouldn't let me skip _two_ classes in the same day. So I'd managed to drag myself to school for Ethics, a choice that my sluggish mind was already regretting.

I opened the door quietly and slipped inside. Dr. Marcus gave me a quick once-over as I scurried to my seat, but he didn't say anything. Jonathan's eyes lit up as I walked past him, and he leaned back as soon as I sat down.

"Hey, where were you this morning?" he whispered. "We missed you in Accounting…"

"_Long_ story," I murmured, yanking out a notebook and pen. "I'll tell you later."

**xxxxx**

I'd had very little experience with mutants in my lifetime. In West Virginia, they'd been barely more than a whisper, gossip, something that only happened in other parts of the world; bigger cities and states. Sure, there had been rumors now and then about members of our community being mutants, much in the same way that people gossiped about alleged (and generally untrue) affairs and other scandals. That sort of hearsay is inevitable in a small town, but about 99 of the time it was the result of a misunderstanding or outright lying on someone's part.

For instance, I'd always heard that my high-school geography teacher, Mr. Kendall, was pyrokinetic – meaning he could start fires with his mind. However, this rumor was propagated by a scruffy kid in class who claimed to have seen Mr. Kendall light up his cigarette without the use of a match or lighter… just by staring at it. We probably would've given a little more weight to his allegation if he hadn't been such a burn-out – he'd also claimed that he heard the voices of butterflies, which coincidentally occurred after he'd taken a particularly bad hit of acid one weekend while partying a little too hard.

But as far as actually being face-to-face with a real, confirmed mutant? No. I'd been sheltered in that regard, maybe. We'd studied mutations in my science classes, just like every other kid in the country, but that was pretty much where my factual knowledge ended. All other information I'd garnered through the news and word of mouth, and _that_ information wasn't pretty: mutants were unpredictable. Unstable. Dangerous. They were a threat to society.

Right?

I still wasn't sure. Last night I'd learned that, yes, they could be unpredictable, unstable, and dangerous. Being able to unleash a set of knives from your hands was just… just unnatural and treacherous in so many ways. But, then again, he hadn't threatened _me_, he'd been trying to help… albeit in a very petrifying manner. I'd told the police as much, emphasizing that although Black Ice had startled me (understatement of the year), he had only been trying to stop a robbery in progress. The cops had sort of sneered at that – I wasn't sure they actually believed me – but they'd taken the notes down regardless.

"So tell me…" My personal reflections were interrupted by Jonathan. Class had just ended; the other students were filtering through the door. And I'd been sitting at my desk, completely lost in thought and unaware that the lecture was even over. "...what happened? You look like _hell_, Sera."

I stood up, gathering my bag and purse. "It's—" I shook my head, chuckling at the absurdity of it all. I started walking towards the door, he followed. "You got about thirty minutes? Because it's a doozy." I strolled out in the hall, rummaging to find my phone. Randi had probably called a dozen times since I'd hung up on her. She'd be in a fine mood later, I was sure.

"Tell you what," Jonathan said. "Have you ever been to Clark's Diner over on Fifth?"

"I haven't," I said. "Why?"

"Because if you're in the mood for some good, greasy deep-fried food, we could go there for lunch," he said, gently taking hold of my arm and pulling me back. "Since I don't have to be at work until two. But first, you need to go back and sign Marcus's worksheet. He wanted everyone to sign up their groups because he's going to assign the debate topics to each one. He passed it out at the beginning of class, but since you were late…" He gave me a wink to let me know he was just messing around. "I put your name down with mine, but you need to initial it."

"Ah, okay," I said. Coming to class was a good idea, I decided. I was starting to feel a little better. "Sounds good."

We went back to the classroom to catch Dr. Marcus before he left. However, upon walking in, we were treated to the sight of our professor arguing with none other than Warren Worthington. We both halted in the doorway, remaining silent.

"…and this is a _group_ project, Warren, so you're going to have to pick someone to work with…"

"I don't like group projects," Warren said angrily. He was standing ramrod-straight, fists clenched by his sides. He was always so uptight, that kid. Gave short, clipped answers in class, never spoke to anyone, always sulking. "I always end up doing all the work myself and then others take the credit. I'd rather just do it alone."

"That's not the point," Dr. Marcus replied, sounding tired. "The point of group projects is not to alleviate your workload; it's to learn _how_ to work with other people. Doing the project alone completely defeats that purpose."

I glanced over to Jonathan. The two of them were so intently arguing that they hadn't noticed we were standing there. I quickly stepped back out in the hall out of sight, pulling Jonathan with me. I didn't want either of them to look up and see us gawking. "Should we leave or wait?" I whispered. Jonathan shrugged.

Despite being out of sight, we could still hear perfectly well. "Why is it such a big deal?" Warren demanded, his tone rising. "The work will get done. I do tons of group work in other classes, and I'm tired of it. I'd just like to do something myself, for once."

Jonathan nodded slowly as he met my eyes, fascinated by Warren's apparent diva fit. "Damn," he muttered. "What an attitude."

"Warren, I would have thought that _you_ of all people would understand the importance of being able to work with others… even people you don't like. Do you think your father enjoys it all of the time?" Dr. Marcus was losing his patience. Not that I could blame him. I generally didn't like group work, either, but I sucked it up and did what I was told. And in the business world, obviously working with others was unavoidable. "If you'd approach this with an open mind, you might be surprised."

I gnawed at my lip. I didn't like eavesdropping, and I didn't want to wait until they were done, since I had no idea how long that would take. "Maybe I should just go to his office later," I whispered to Jonathan. "I'll sign it then."

He shook his head. "Nah. Come on, let's just go in and ask him for the sheet real quick right now."

"We can't just interrupt them!" I protested.

"Why not? I'm sure neither of them is enjoying this argument. Besides, I'm hungry and I don't want to wait… and I don't want you to go out of your way later." He tugged on my arm again. "Just follow me."

He pulled me into the classroom. "Dr. Marcus?" he called out. Their argument immediately ceased, and I felt my face burn a little as the professor and Warren both stared at us. "Sorry, but Sera here needs to sign the sheet, we almost forgot."

"Oh. Oh, of course. Hang on." Dr. Marcus pulled a clipboard from his bag and handed it to me. I quickly scanned down the list – there were eleven pairs of names scribbled across the paper, so I quickly found where Jonathan had written both our names and initialed it. It seemed sort of silly to clarify that you agreed to be in someone's group, but apparently in the past, the professor had students try to sign other people into their group without discussing it beforehand. Or, as we'd seen here with Warren, not sign at all in an attempt to worm their way out of working in a group, period.

I handed the clipboard back to him. "Okay, thanks. And sorry for being late today – it was an unavoidable… incident," I said. "Won't happen again." _I hope,_ I added silently.

"Not a problem, Sera," Dr. Marcus said. He gave me an amused smile. "I know you're not a truant."

With that task thankfully done, Jonathan and I said goodbye, eager to leave the professor and Warren to their previous 'discussion'. We had made it to the door when we were both stopped.

"Sera. Jonathan. Stay just a minute, I'd like to ask you something."

Jonathan and I half-turned and met eyes, confused. I turned. "Yes?"

Dr. Marcus had a pensive look on his face, as if he'd just thought of something that had never occurred to him before. I didn't like that look; it meant he was up to something. "There's an uneven number of people in class, so one group will have to have an extra person," he said. I felt my eyes widen – I instantly knew what was coming next. "And Warren here needs a group, so…"

Jonathan blanched. "I don't know, I think—"

Warren interrupted him, looking equally as upset. "I told you, I don't want—"

"Warren," Dr. Marcus said, forcefully silencing us all. "You're doing this project under the same rules as everyone else. You said you were worried that you'd end up doing all the work – well, these two are the best students in class. Very reliable and diligent; you'll have nothing to worry about." He looked at Jonathan. "And for you two, it would mean a little more manpower for the research, and less speaking you'll have to do in the debate, because you can split it into three parts."

No one spoke.

The professor sighed, turning his gaze to me. His eyes had an earnest, begging sort of quality to them, an unspoken suggestion for me to just _ask_ Warren if he'd like to be in our group and get it over with. He wanted this problem solved, and we'd conveniently walked in as his solution.

I doggedly remained silent.

He sighed. "So, what do you say you let Warren join your group here?" he finally asked when it became obvious I wasn't going to breach the question myself.

I looked to Jonathan, and then to the sullen face of Warren, then back to Jonathan. Why was I always such a pushover when it came to these sorts of things?

"Well," I hedged. "Sure, I guess… Jonathan? Um, what do you say?" Jonathan frowned, but gave a grunt of agreement. I could only imagine the tongue-lashing he was giving me in his mind.

"Perfect." Dr. Marcus looked totally relieved. "Warren, add your name to this sheet. I'll have each debate topic assigned to the groups by next week."

"Okay," I said softly. Great. I felt like I'd been backed into a corner; I hadn't really _wanted_ Warren in our group. But Dr. Marcus had used a move that I knew all too well – playing to a student's sense of vanity in order to get them to consent. 'Best students in the class', right. I'd done it plenty of times myself, so I supposed it was just a little bad karma making its way back. All three of us watched silently as the professor took the clipboard back from Warren, stuffed it in his bag, and threw the strap over his shoulder with amazing speed. He wanted to get out of there before any of us changed our minds.

"I'll see the three of you next week," he said breezily. "Thanks again." With a quick wave over his shoulder, he strolled out of the room, leaving only me, Jonathan, and Warren. Or, to put it more accurately, me and two _very_ disgruntled young men.

I forced a smile on my face. Hmmm. We were going to be seeing a lot of him now, so I figured I might as well try to be polite. "Well, Warren," I said, giving a sidelong glance to my now-irate lunch date. "We haven't really 'met', I guess, so I'm Sera Slone, and this is Jonathan Brady."

"I know who you are." His arms were folded tightly across his chest. He wasn't very tall, I noticed, but his stiff stature made him seem much more imposing than height alone allowed.

"Oh… okay, good, I guess…" God, couldn't he just lighten up for a minute? A second? I paused, thinking of something else to say; to try and engage him in conversation. He wasn't the only stubborn person in the room; I'd find a way to get through to him somehow.

Well, we _were_ on our way to eat lunch…

_Oh, Jonathan, don't hate me for this... _

"So," I said gently. "We're going to have some lunch at Clark's now, if you want to come with us, you know, kind of get to know each other a little better…" Jonathan coughed loudly, and I gave him a sharp look. "Since we're going to be working together now, and all…"

He gave me a flat look. He had very blue eyes, I noticed. Light, pale, icy. "I'm vegetarian."

"Oh…" I shrugged sheepishly. "Sorry, I didn't know… well, where do _you_ like to go? I'm open to anything…"

"I have to be somewhere," he said shortly. "So thanks but no thanks." He was clearly done with conversation. With that, he suddenly hoisted his backpack up and walked out, leaving the two of us jilted by his insolence.

Jonathan groaned, rubbing his face with his hands. "_Fuck_."

I'd dealt with students who'd had royal attitudes before, but this certainly had to take the cake. I was already regretting caving in to Dr. Marcus's pleading eyes. Would having to do a little less work on this project really be worth all the trouble Warren was likely going to put us through?

I doubted it. I sincerely doubted it.

Nevertheless, I shrugged and gave Jonathan a sardonic smile. "Wow, I didn't think my week could get any worse," I said dryly. "This is going to be a _fun_ three months."

"You said it." He shook his head, snorting incredulously. "Hell. C'mon, let's go to Clark's and eat big, fat greasy burgers like the carnivores we are." He raised an eyebrow at me. "And _you_ can tell me why you were late in the first place, which led to us waiting around after class, which led to us having Richie Rich added to our roster."

I couldn't help but laugh at his wry, acerbic humor. At least I could rely on _him_ to act like a normal human being. "That sounds great, actually," I replied. With that, we strolled out of Ginger Hall together, heading for Clark's.


	7. Chapter 5: A Meeting of Minds

**A/N:** Not much to say here. Just delving little more into Warren's mind and torturing him with ethical debates. :) Thanks for your comments! They are always appreciated. :)

* * *

**Chapter Five: A Meeting of Minds**

October 2, 2006  
_Warren_

"Warren, are you busy? Can I talk to you?"

I raised my head out of my textbook, startled. It was a Monday morning, and I had somehow arrived for Accounting nearly twenty minutes ahead of schedule. I'd awakened early, before the alarm even went off. So instead of going back to bed, I grudgingly got up and started getting ready. I guess that's what a good night's sleep can do for you. I hadn't gone out last night because there had been a thunderstorm, and I'd previously discovered that wet wings were not conducive to safe flying, nevermind the risky issue of lightning. So for once I felt well-rested and in a surprisingly good mood, for a Monday.

Sera Slone was squatting next to me, her arms resting on the tops of her thighs, hands loosely clasped. She met my eyes unabashed, and I gave her a nod. "Yes?"

She leaned back, tipping her weight until she was sitting cross-legged on the floor next to me. Her long hair fell forward, and she tossed it out of her face as she replied. "Well, Jonathan and I were talking, and we'd really like to go ahead and get started on this debate project."

Oh, yes, the debate project. As if I needed another thing to stress over at this juncture in my life. Hiding my wings, attending my parents' demands, doing regular schoolwork, and flying around saving all of New York City apparently wasn't enough. "Okay…"

"So, we were thinking of meeting tonight. Say, six o'clock. At Café Eva," she said. "And we probably won't meet long, but it'll just be a jumping point. We can get eat, get a discussion started, and maybe split up the work and start from there." She paused, giving me a very earnest, open look. Wide brown eyes, serene smile. She was attractive, I had to admit, in an earthy sort of way. Not my type, but pretty nonetheless. "What do you say?"

I didn't say anything for a moment; just studied her. Sera was an odd one. Most girls were easy to figure out, really. Like my father, I could always tell when they were after something and _what_ they were after. It came across in their tone, their body language, the way they looked at me, even the flighty topics they brought up in conversation. Having spent much of the past few years living life as an observer rather than a participant, it became second nature to predict what sort of reaction I would get from the things I said or did.

But Sera was different in that she didn't outwardly react at all. Since the day we'd been assigned to work together, she'd approached me on numerous occasions to ask a question or breach conversation. Every time I'd brushed her off, every time I'd refused to entertain a real dialogue with her, she remained unfazed. She didn't get angry. She simply shrugged, left me alone, and then came back to ask the next day as if nothing had happened. It was unsettling. And uncomfortable.

"Tonight?" I said, hesitant. I knew we were eventually going to have to start meeting outside of class, but I really hadn't wanted it to be so soon. Or ever. "I don't think so."

"Oh?" she asked. "Why not?"

_Because I don't feel like it, that's why._ "I'm… I'm busy."

"Busy," she repeated. She leaned against the wall, studying me with an intense, even gaze. "Busy, just like you were this past weekend, and all last week, and the week before that."

"Yes," I said simply.

"I'm busy, too," she said. Coming from another, the words would have sounded sarcastic, hateful. But Sera's expression and tone didn't take on any of that nastiness. It flowed naturally, as if she was just stating a known fact. "I have class, a job, responsibilities. So does Jonathan."

I fidgeted, creasing and re-creasing the right page corner of my book. "What's your point?"

"My point is that although we're busy as well, we both manage to reserve a little time to work on this."

"I can't help my schedule," I snapped. I was beginning to feel uncomfortable. Hot, itchy, squirmy. Sandwiched there between her and the wall, I had the oddest sensation of being trapped. When I was stressed, my makeshift corset suddenly became way too tight and constricting, as if my wings and abdomen were being crushed by some unseen force. I'd never considered myself claustrophobic, but I certainly understood how it felt.

"Warren," she said quietly. "Look, I know you didn't want to work with us. And I know you probably _are_ busy a lot of the time. But I promise, if you just make a little effort here, this will all be over before you know it."

_Why won't she leave me alone? Why can't I get rid of her? Why can't she just—_

"Just meet us tonight," she said. "Just for a little while. Thirty minutes of your time."

I didn't answer. Instead, I looked away, staring down the corridor. There were classrooms all up and down the hall on either side, and every door was still closed. But we were no longer alone, as several other students had meandered in and collapsed against the white concrete walls, waiting to go inside their respective classes.

"I—" I faltered. "I don't—"

"And, just for the record, I hear that Café Eva has one of the best vegetarian menus in the city," she said, interrupting me. "I'm interested to try it out, myself."

"Yeah…" I'd ordered from Café Eva before, actually, and it was delicious. They had unbelievable zucchini parmesan – I'd tried to recreate the recipe at home myself, but could never quite get the same taste…

"Is six o'clock too early?" She leaned forward, elbows on knees, still studying me closely. For a moment, I felt like I was being sized up.

"Well…" When you never really had plans, there was no such thing as 'too early'. I cleared my throat. "…no, not really, but—"

"Okay, so, what do you think, Warren?" she asked, breaking in once again. "Will six o'clock work then, to eat and meet for a bit?"

Every part of me was childishly screaming _No, I'm not coming, just tell me what I need to do for this goddamn debate and I'll do it!_ However, I found myself saying something unexpected. Something that fell out of my mouth before I could catch it. I said yes.

"Okay," I relented. "Six at Café Eva. But I can't stay long," I added. _I'll just make an appearance,_ I thought. Thirty _minutes, like she said._ _See what they want me to do, then head out. Easy._

"Perfect." She smiled broadly, her face creasing with familiar laugh lines. I could sense her inner feelings of personal triumph. Like she'd just tamed some wild animal. "We'll see you then. Thanks, Warren."

She pushed herself up, dusted off her jeans, and retreated down the hall. And that was that. One good thing I could say about Sera Slone was that she wasn't one to sit around and waste words when the issue was resolved. That's how it was in the business world, I'd learned – there was plenty of talking and cajoling before a deal was made, but once hands were shaken and papers signed, idle talk ceased to exist. Get in. Get it done. Get lost. She apparently operated under the same rules. I could appreciate that.

"Yeah…" I murmured sarcastically when she was out of earshot. I settled back against the wall, squirming slightly to adjust against my wings. I felt a little calmer for the moment now that I was alone again, but the good mood I'd started the day with was completely shot. I flipped my textbook back open and started reading again. "…thanks."

**xxxxx**

"Warren?" my mother asked. I started, blinking and vigorously rubbing my temple. With some consternation, I realized that I'd been staring at the city skyline outside the bay window for the past ten minutes, unaware that she'd even been talking. I gripped the phone a little tighter, glancing at the clock. It was a quarter to six, and therefore, almost time for me to leave. "Warren, honey, are you listening?"

"Yeah," I lied. "Sorry, I was just distracted for a minute."

She clicked her teeth in disapproval. "I just asked you if you would be coming with us to dinner this Saturday."

"This Saturday?" I repeated. I'd managed to get out of the past few weeks' excursions by feigning sickness, though I knew neither Mom nor Dad bought the act. I walked away from my window, looking for my backpack. Thirty minutes. That was all I had to put in tonight, thirty minutes. "I dunno…"

"You really should come, Warren, we've missed you the past two weeks," she said. "Julianna Foster asked about you, you know."

"Did she now?" I rolled my eyes. I was sure Julianna only missed my presence because she saw me as a convenient way to get her father off her case. After the last dinner I'd attended, the one where we'd been introduced, she'd given me a quick hug when the evening was over and thanked me profusely for acting as her pseudo-date for the evening. And since she'd given that passionate anti-mutant speech during dinner, I'd wondered just how horrified she would have been if she'd known that when she'd lightly looped her arms around my back for that short hug, she was indirectly touching a set of folded, cramped mutant wings.

"You two looked very cute together," my mother continued. "Have you spoken to her since then?"

The backpack was sitting next to the couch, so I lifted it up and slung one strap over my shoulder. I wandered into the kitchen, checking the table, the counter, and the little catch-all basket above the light switch. Where were my keys?

"No, I haven't," I said. _And I don't really intend to._ Cute together? She was really laying it on thick tonight. "Besides, she has a boyfriend. And Mom, I don't mean to be rude, but I have to leave now. I'm meeting up with some people to work on school stuff."

Her voice perked up, presumably at the revelation that I was getting out of the apartment and mingling with peers in some form. "Some people? Like who?"

I couldn't help but snort a little. Mothers, always so nosy. "Just some people from class that I'm doing a project with," I said. Then I smirked. Well, I could easily milk this as a social event; she would like to hear that. "We're meeting for dinner at Café Eva, then studying." _For thirty minutes, anyway._

"Oh, good, good," she said. Her tone took on an impish lilt. "Would any of these people happen to be female?"

"Mom!" I said, exasperated. She was _relentless_. "Could you give it a rest?"

Frowning, I reached around my side, scratching. I needed to buy some new bandages; the old ones I'd been using forever had lost their elasticity, and I found that I had to pull the fabric tighter and tighter each time in order to achieve the same results. Plus, they'd gotten brittle and abrasive from too many washings, so strapping down my wings had become even more uncomfortable. Especially when I'd been wearing them all day – since I had to go back out tonight, I hadn't taken them off when I'd gotten home from class. It wasn't worth the trouble to unravel myself for only an hour or two, so I figured I'd just grin and bear the discomfort.

However, I was quickly regretting that. This whole experience had given me a new respect for women. Candy had often complained that the sexy lingerie she wore for me was uncomfortable, but I'd always dismissed her grumbling because she never complained about the things that happened _after_ she wore it…

Candy. Beautiful, sexy Candy. Speaking of females… W_onder what she's doing now. Wonder if she still wants to teach grade school like she said she was going to. She was always good with kids… she'd be a great mother…_

"Well?" I was brought back to harsh reality by my mother's expectant tone. I bent over, twisting and struggling to reach a particularly stubborn itch._ There's got to be a better way to do this,_ I thought. I'd managed this problem for more than two years now, but the thought of going through the rest of my life wrapped up like a mummy grew less and less appealing every time I put on the bandages.

"Yes," I said curtly. "And before you ask, no, I'm not interested in her. She's a good student. So is he. And so am I. That's why we're working together." Well, not exactly, I'd just been shanghaied into being part of their project. Not to mention that the guy, Jonathan, had looked about as thrilled at the prospect as I'd been. Sera, at least, was polite to me, even if she was persistently in my face.

"You always were such a good student," she said with pride. "I'm glad it's paying off, honey. I—"

"I really have to go," I cut in. Where the _hell_ were my keys? "Or I'm gonna be late. Sorry, Mom. Should I call you later?"

"No, no, that's okay. I'll call you later this week." She paused. "Just tell me one thing, Warren."

Uh-oh. "Yeah?"

"Is she cute?"

I groaned. Never let it be said that Katherine Worthington is a quitter. "MOTHER."

"Sorry, sorry!" She actually laughed then, and I had to admit that a part of me felt better just knowing that her worries were somewhat assuaged. "I'll talk to you later, Warren. Love you."

"Love you, too." I clicked the phone off and tossed it onto the couch. Now… keys. I folded my arms, thinking, before I remembered that I'd slipped them into the pocket of my trench coat. Relieved, I went to the closet and plucked the keys from the pocket. The weather this evening was surprisingly warm, too muggy for that coat, so I left it behind. My wings would just have to remain hidden under my long-sleeve shirt.

I hoisted up my backpack, grunting as the weight shifted. With my keys in hand, I took the elevator down to the ground-level garage, heading for Café Eva.

**xxxxx**

I've never really liked driving. Except for the first night I'd gotten the Spyder – my ill-fated sixteenth birthday – traveling by car was mostly a pain in the ass. It provided a normal means to get somewhere (as opposed to flying), but that was about it. It was a matter of comfort, really. Comfort and location. Driving meant being boxed in and sitting on top of my wings until the pressure made them hot and sore. Traffic in New York was notorious, so I was guaranteed to spend at least thirty minutes cooped up for even short trips. I could have gotten a driver, like my parents, but I'd dismissed that suggestion, preferring to just do it myself. Chalk it up to more Worthington stubbornness.

"What the fuck are you doing?" I shouted when a beat-up green Toyota cut me off. I slammed on the brakes, grimacing when I saw the car in my mirror swerve to avoid rear-ending me. Jesus. "Jackass…"

I turned at the next intersection, carefully looking for Café Eva's small, nondescript sign. I'd passed by the place plenty of times, ordered the food occasionally, but had never been inside. I was running a little late – about five minutes – but I knew I was almost there. Sera and Jonathan were probably already there, cursing their misfortune.

Sighing, I slowed to a crawl when I found the restaurant. Truthfully, I felt sorry for the two of them – I knew that neither had planned on having a third wheel in this endeavor, and Dr. Marcus had certainly put them on the spot that day after class…

I scowled. Bastard. I still didn't see what the big deal about working alone was, anyway.

There were no parking lots or structures nearby, so I elected to parallel park in a snug spot across the street. Well, at the very least, my parents' business dinners had shown me how to handle myself in group situations, so I supposed that was a plus. The brusqueness I generally used for class had worked for me up to a point, but I wasn't sure it was going to fly here anymore. Not when Sera seemed bound and determined to bring me into the fold. Damn her.

I sat with the engine off for a moment, listening to the soft crooning of Billie Holiday on 87.9. It wasn't dark outside, but the sun was well on its way down, giving the tall, rustic buildings a faded, aged appearance. Pulling the key out of the ignition, I peered at the glass front of Café Eva's, examining each person inside. After a moment, I saw them both, sitting at a table off to the left, sipping out of tall glasses and laughing about something.

I wanted nothing more than to go home, take off my heavy clothes, and fly… but instead I took a deep breath, stepped out of the car, and walked in the door. _Thirty minutes, that's all…_

It was an informal café, the type of place where you order up front and take your food to a table. I approached the counter first. I wasn't too hungry, as I'd had a late lunch, so I just ordered a Coke, a veggie pita, and a sugar cookie. I took my purchase and slowly approached their table.

Jonathan saw me first, as he was facing my direction. His eyes, which had been wide and laughing at something she'd said, immediately went flat and unenthusiastic. _Wow_, I thought, amused. _I really have an effect on people._

"Hey, Warren," he said.

Sera turned, her mouth still on the straw of her Coke. Her long brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and she looked otherwise relaxed. She quickly swallowed her drink and smiled. "Hey, Warren, how's it going?"

"Fine," I said. "Sorry I'm late."

"No problem." She dismissed the apology with a wave of her hand. "Sit, sit. What did you get?"

"Just a cookie and a pita. And a Coke." I sat down next to her – I decided that sitting next to Jonathan wouldn't do much for his already-evident animosity. I set my food down on the smooth wooden table and collapsed in the chairs, keeping a safe, respectable distance between Sera and I.

She peered over at my tray. "That looks pretty good, actually. I had the veggie lasagna. Highly recommend it."

"Sure." I picked up my pita, pretending that I didn't see the victorious look she'd just given Jonathan. _Yeah, okay, you got me here, congratulations. Now let's get this over with. _I stuffed the sandwich in my mouth, taking a huge, ferocious bite.

Sera leaned back in her chair, daintily taking another sip of her soda. Her hands were curled tightly around the glass, cradling it with a grip that was both feminine and strong. She had long fingers, I noticed. And three rings – one on each middle finger, and a intricate gold band on fourth of her right hand, but not her left. Unmarried. I wasn't sure why that revelation struck me as odd.

"So, how was your day?" she asked once she'd swallowed. An attempt at friendly conversation.

"Fine." I continued to eat, methodically working my way around the outer edge of the bread. I liked that part best, because it was a little crispier.

"Did you have any trouble getting here?" she continued. "I heard that there was a wreck down on Sexton Street, apparently the traffic was nuts…"

A wreck? It wasn't like I could do anything about it now – I was stuck here with them, for one, and it was still daylight, for another – but I still felt that twinge, that small longing to fly and fix and rescue. "No," I said. "No trouble."

"Did you—"

"Look," I said, talking with my mouth full of lettuce, disregarding standard good manners. "I can't stay long. Can we get started?"

Sera and Jonathan were silent a moment, then exchanged yet another glance. "Sure," she said slowly. "Let's get started."

**xxxxx**

Though there are times when I 'zone out' of life and lose myself in oblivion – in class, for example – the truth is that I find the way humans interact to be quite fascinating. Regular people, who are unguarded and frank and real. Not like businessmen, who are, in essence, actors. But Sera and Jonathan were a perfect example. Two young adults, unassuming and naïve to an extent, hanging out and collaborating on a joint goal.

And I'd learned a few interesting things in the short amount of time I'd spent with them. They were both older, which most would have misconstrued to mean they were both more mature. Sera was twenty-seven, a surprisingly baby-faced former teacher turned risk analyst wannabe, and she'd moved to New York from the mountains of West Virginia on a whim. Jonathan was twenty-four and a student council member who'd switched from English to Radiology to Accounting during his six-year tenure at SWU, although he swore that this was his final choice.

Interesting, indeed. What would drive a small-town girl from the safe confines of home and family to the rat race of NYC? And what sort of guy changed his mind so often, and in such a crazily varied way, about his choice of profession in life? I had my theories, but I was going to wait to learn more before I applied them. I did, however, discover one universal truth about the two of them – Jonathan had it bad for her. Seriously bad.

When it came to women, some men played it cool, others were transparent with their feelings. This guy was the latter, for sure. The way he looked at her, his tone of voice, the seemingly insignificant differences in his body posture when he talked to her versus talking to me. Yeah. He wanted her, that much was obvious. And Sera, for her part, indulged his flirtations and even responded to an extent, but there was an underlying reserve to her actions; a hesitance. Like she wasn't sure what she wanted, exactly.

Typical woman.

"Well, we can at least start gathering information about our topic," Jonathan said, breaking into my thoughts. "Just to get an idea of what's out there. Then maybe later decide who's going to talk about what, and in what order."

With my sandwich finished, I pinched off a section of my cookie, slowly chewing on it. "Topic?" I repeated. That was news to me. "When did he assign the topic?"

"In class last week," Jonathan said. "He passed out a sheet with everyone's assignment. I guess you weren't there that day." I didn't like the sarcasm in his voice, but I let it pass. I didn't miss class often, but there was one morning last week when I'd been too exhausted from the previous night's activities to get out of bed. _Fuck you. I'd like to see **you** make it to class after spending two hours carrying a dozen people to safety from a burning building…_

"So?" I said instead. "What's ours?" I tore off more of the cookie. I suddenly wished I'd bought more than one – I was hungrier than I'd thought.

Sera plucked a white sheet from her notebook, sliding it across the counter towards me. "Preimplantation Genetic Diagnosis. We're supposed to argue _for_ it."

I stopped chewing. Oh, for the love of Christ… "Excuse me?"

"It's the process by which parents can choose what features and traits they want their child to have, or what traits and features—"

I held my hand up. "I know what it means," I said coolly. God, did I ever. It was one of the many things I'd come across in my research following my unexpected 'growth spurt'.

"—they don't want," Sera trailed off. "Okay. Well, yeah. Basically, almost the concept of creating a 'designer baby', free of diseases—"

"—or mutations," Jonathan interjected. I felt my face heat up. _Again, fuck you, you jerk._

"—or whatever," Sera finished. She took another sip of her soda and frowned. "I need a refill," she mused, so absurdly off topic that I nearly laughed out loud.

"And we're arguing that this is a _good_ thing," I said. Perfect. What dramatic irony. I slouched down in my chair, staring up at the tiny, simple white chandeliers dangling from the ceiling. I didn't want to argue _for_ PGD. I didn't want to argue _against_ it. I just didn't want to think about the topic, period. Or, for that matter, anything remotely related to the concept of genetic engineering. I was a _living_ genetic failure, for fuck's sake…

"Yeah." Sera held up her glass, and a waitress scurried up to get her refill. "Which I don't really like, because I'm not sure I agree with that."

Jonathan cocked his head to the side and gazed at her, a small smile on his lips.

"You don't like what? The idea of a cute little 'designer baby'?" he asked. "You wouldn't need that anyway, Sera… I bet your babies would be adorable all on their own."

_Oh, God, gag me. That's the lamest line I've ever heard. Un-fucking-believable._ I coughed loudly, covering up a snort, and Jonathan gave me a stare that could have melted adamantium. I glared back at him, scarcely blinking. _Don't look at **me** like that, I'm not the one pitifully attempting to get laid here…_

Sera merely rolled her eyes. Well, at least she wasn't a pushover for pathetic attempts at flattery. "You know what I mean," she said. "That's messing with nature too much, I think. Personally, I believe you let the cards fall where they may…"

I felt a spark of disagreement._ But sometimes, when you let the cards fall where they may, you end up with an extra helping of fur, or with lizard scales, or with an sixteen-foot set of extra appendages…_ I grimaced. Thinking about it now – _really_ thinking about it – I wasn't sure where I personally stood on the issue. After all, if my parents had genetically ensured that I would be a normal child, I wouldn't have ever had the wings… and if I'd never had the wings, I'd have never known what it was like to fly, so I would have never known what I was missing… so it all worked out, right? You can't regret something you've never had…

"But the opportunity to make sure your kid's free of your family's history of diabetes, or high cholesterol, or cancer?" Jonathan asked. "Wouldn't it be wrong to _ignore_ that option? You're basically playing Russian Roulette with their health…"

"That's nice in theory, but I think we all know what this genetic diagnosis would lead to," Sera argued. She was leaning on the table towards Jonathan, arms akimbo and hands fluttering to make her point. She was always passionate with her opinions, I had to give her that. "Physical appearance and skill; parents will want to pick and choose and design their own child. And that's where I think it's wrong. Besides," she added after a moment. "As far as the disease-prevention argument goes, I don't think it matters if you try to 'save' your kids from certain illnesses. Because eventually, nature evolves to get around it. Why do you think there are so many strands of flu nowadays? You come up with a vaccination for one, then it mutates and becomes something else you have to fight. Nature finds a way."

_Nature evolves… it mutates… nature finds a way…_

Right. Good point.

"What do you think, Warren?" she asked then, after several more minutes of flurried debate with Jonathan. Another attempt to engage me in conversation. "Do you think it's a good idea, or not?"

The room suddenly seemed dim to me; darker and smaller. The sun had gone down, I realized, and there was no longer the friendly glow coming through the windows as there had been earlier. Glancing at my watch, I saw that I'd been there for nearly an hour, well beyond the thirty minutes I'd promised. Okay. It was time for me to get out of there.

"I—I don't know," I answered – truth. "I haven't given it much thought." Lie. "And… I have to go. I'm late already. Sorry." I abruptly stood up, grabbing my discarded napkin and cookie wrapper. Jonathan gave a little grunt of disapproval, but said nothing.

"Oh, well – oh, okay…" Sera's eyes scrunched together in puzzlement. "What do you want to—"

"I'll start doing some research on this," I interrupted her. Finally standing upright made me realize just how achy my back was. Was this how dogs felt, when they hadn't been walked in awhile? Anxious and wound up? "Just some preliminary stuff to get going. Then maybe we can go from there." I tossed my stuff in the nearest trash bin and wiped my hands on the leg of my jeans. God, they were sweaty…

"Okay, well… when should we meet again?" Sera rested her elbows on the table, meeting my gaze squarely. She'd tucked the fallen strands of her ponytail behind her ears, and I again marveled at how amazingly young she looked, despite her age. Innocent, almost cherubic. "I mean, we didn't really get a whole lot accomplished…"

"I don't know," I said. "We'll talk about it in class." She started to protest, but I gave them both a quick nod as a goodbye and bolted for the door. I didn't look back. Eager to get out, get home, and get free.

**xxxxx**

There's this moment, the instant when the last roll of bandage falls to the floor and my wings spring free, that's absolute bliss. It's a pressure release. Orgasmic. That feeling of burden being lifted, quite literally, from my back. It's like finally being able to breathe again after spending a century underwater.

When I arrived home, I raced into my bedroom and ripped off my shirt with such force that I tore the side seam. Tonight, however, I couldn't even wait to unravel myself to get that aforementioned sensation of freedom and ecstasy. Instead, I grabbed a section of the thin bandages and yanked, ripping the now-brittle material into shreds all the way down my side until there was nothing left. I threw the remnants in the floor, next to my tattered shirt.

I was panting and sweaty by the time I was done. Squaring my shoulders, I lowered my head and lifted my wings, stretching them out as far as they would reach, attempting to get the blood flowing through the shafts again. The feathers of each tip brushed against opposite walls, and I had to be careful not to knock my mother's Tiffany lamp off the nightstand as I stretched. I needed to get out, work them and get loosened up…

I took deep, slow breaths, attempting to calm myself down before heading out into the night. When my heart rate had settled, I thought about getting out my Avenging Angel 'uniform', but decided against it. Tonight would be just for my own benefit, I deserved it. And I wasn't feeling stable enough to work for others.

There was a mirror in front of me, a wide, wooden-framed piece that nearly took up the entire length of the wall. It was more for decoration than for vanity, a way to open up the room and make the space seem even larger. But it was also large enough to replicate my entire body, wings and all. I stared at my reflection, watching with morbid fascination as the feathers ruffled and fluttered with each tiny move I made.

_Nature finds a way…_

I watched my lips curl into a rueful smile. "It sure does," I murmured. I stayed still a moment longer before snapping my wings back and briskly walking from the room. I was only on the balcony for mere seconds before lifting into the sky, holding my arms out as I breathed in the rush of cool air. It felt amazing on my bare chest, fresh and soothing. Sort of like skinny-dipping. Smiling for the first time that day, I picked up speed and climbed higher in the air, eager to get further from the city and lose myself in the clouds.

**xxxxx**

And the thought struck me later, when I returned to the stratosphere, that something about the evening didn't seem quite right. I didn't chalk it up to paranoia – because I'd experienced the feeling enough in my lifetime to recognize it even when it wasn't blatantly in my face. And it worried me.

Because I felt, for the first time since my Avenging Adventures had begun, like I was being watched.


	8. Chapter 6: Up Close and Personal

**A/N:** Nothing much this time. I've got to hurry and post this before I have to run. :) Enjoy! Thanks for all your comments!

* * *

**Chapter Six: Up close and personal**

October 28, 2006  
_Sera_

"So how's this project of yours coming along?" Dylan slouched on my tiny, beat-up loveseat, a hand-me-down from my parents that had seen much better days. We often laughed at its hideous olive green fabric, the rips in the cushions, the beer stains scattered here and there. That couch had _character_.

"Mmmm?" I murmured, only half-listening. I was studying the front page of the Daily Post – **ON ANGEL'S WINGS!** screamed the top headline, along with a fuzzy photo of a dazed-looking woman, apparently just moments after being saved by New York City's new local superhero. It was an interesting twist on a topic that had been at the forefront of my mind lately – mutants, genetics, and the sticky, unclear issue of right and wrong. Here was another person who was using his unnatural genetic 'gift' for good, much like the clawed man. It was again a direct contradiction to what I'd been taught about mutants. I couldn't help but wonder what was going through their minds – what would possess someone to risk exposing themselves to the public in order to save others? Did they appreciate their mutation, or was it a burden? Would they have rather been born 'normal', like the genetic diagnosis promised? Or would they be fiercely opposed and proud of their 'abilities'?

So much to think about. What I wouldn't give to talk personally with one of these mutants and get some answers… but the clawed man hadn't shown up at the bar since that night (not to mention his disposition had never lent me to believe that he was much of a talker, anyway), and the Avenging Angel… well, one never knew when or where he would show up, and his identity, obviously, was meant to remain a mystery.

"Your project," Dylan repeated patiently. I looked up then, tossing the newspaper down. His long legs dangling over the side, and he was draped bonelessly across the ratty cushions. He should have a model, in my opinion – what with the dark, perfectly mussed hair, pouty lips, and soulful eyes. He even _moved_ like one. Most young guys lounging on a couch looked like a messy pile of dirty clothes and skinny limbs. Dylan, however, was always graceful and fluid, even when relaxing. "You know, the one you said you had to work on with that Worthington guy."

I slumped in the floor, cracking open a Bud Light. It was Saturday night, and I'd gotten the evening off from work. I'd originally wanted to go out with Dylan and Randi, hit a few of the clubs downtown, but two things had stopped me – my lack of sufficient funds, and sheer fatigue. I'd worked every night this week, taken two midterms, completed a fifteen-page research paper for Business Writing, and met with Jonathan and (sometimes) Warren whenever I could fit it in. Busy? Just a little. So instead of heading out, Dylan had offered to come keep me and my supply of beer company for the evening – an affordable means of entertainment – while Randi had accepted a date from one of the chefs at Le Deauville.

"It sucks," I said bluntly. "And that's putting it mildly."

"Oh?" he asked, lifting his own can and taking a long sip. Amazing – he was elegant even when drinking beer. He didn't guzzle or swill it like most guys. "What's wrong?"

"Where do I begin?" I asked wryly. "We're arguing a point I don't agree with… when we can get him to actually come to meetings, Warren barely speaks… he and Jonathan _hate_ each other… and Dr. Marcus is no help whatsoever." I shrugged, leaning onto my side on one elbow. "I'll be glad when December's come and gone."

To say that Warren was difficult was a massive understatement. Granted, the guy was incredibly intelligent, I could give him that. He got excellent grades, provided us with a lot of useful research material, and actually had a way of developing a compelling argument for such a difficult subject. But that was all stuff done on his own – whenever it came to actually collaborating as a group, he was a mule. Ornery, stubborn, and infuriating. He showed up late to meetings (sometimes not at all), he sat in stony silence much of the time, and when he _did_ speak, it was usually a clipped, surly response to something Jonathan said. I couldn't figure out what his problem was. Could it be a matter of arrogance? That maybe he thought his millions in the bank made him 'better' than us? Or that _because_ he was so smart, doing this project was below him?

Jonathan tended to lean towards the former, while I leaned towards the latter. I didn't think his money had anything to do with it – after all, he never so much as mentioned it. He dressed like any other college bum, in ratty jeans and loose, faded t-shirts. There was absolutely nothing flashy about his outward appearance – well, except for the incredibly hot little sports car I'd seen him pull up in before meeting at the library one evening, but I'd have never known it was his if we hadn't arrived at the same time.

So, I disagreed with Jonathan – and personally, I harbored the secret thought that maybe _he_ was indirectly jealous of Warren's wealth; that being the reason why he brought up the issue so often. But as for Warren himself, I had decided that he just felt he was smart enough to do it on his own, and he didn't want any help. Simple as that. Maybe he was a control freak; someone who liked to be in charge.

Although… that didn't add up, either, because it made me wonder why he never tried to order either of us around. In fact, he just sat back and waited for directions… and then _occasionally_ followed them. Ugh. I had no idea. People always said women were the more complicated of the sexes, but I wasn't so sure that was true.

"They hate each other?" Dylan asked. He raised one thick eyebrow in a perfect sharp arch. "Why?"

I rolled my eyes. "They both have dicks. Too much testosterone for one room, I guess." Dylan laughed loudly, delighting in my unusual crudeness. I tossed my head back and downed nearly half the beer in one drag. "You should hear the snippy little things they say. The way they _glare_ at each other. It's absolutely ridiculous. I mean, they're _grown men_... well, close enough, anyway." I smiled in spite of my irritation and laughed a little. "But this is like high school. Remember me telling you about Tom Coleman and John Caudill?"

Dylan pursed his lips for a moment, then stood up and strolled to the kitchen to get another beer. "Were those the guys who practically destroyed your classroom that one time?" he called back to me. I heard the fridge door open, and the sounds of him rustling around inside.

"Yeah," I replied. "Hey, will you bring me one of those ice cream sandwiches from the freezer? Thanks." When he walked back to the couch, ice cream in hand, I happily took it from him and continued. "Yeah. They were always talking smack, but nobody thought either of them were actually gonna do anything about it, you know? Because they were all talk and no action. But then one day, it's like Tom just snapped… went off, threw the first punch… and he and John broke two chairs, a desk, and tore down the window blinds in the process of 'settling' their differences." I shook my head at the memory. It had been one of the more terrifying – and entertaining, if I was to be shamefully honest – days of my short teaching career. "I could totally picture Warren doing that. He's so stonefaced; it's probably all simmering there below the surface…"

"Probably," Dylan agreed merrily. "But at least the fireworks, when they come, should be entertaining."

"Yeah, I guess," I muttered. I bit into my ice cream, chewing slowly. We were both silent for a minute, save for the faint sounds of sirens outside and the occasional thumping clatter of my upstairs neighbor. I'd grown used to those types of noises – when I'd first moved in, every tiny creak and pop caused me to nearly jump out of my skin. Nowadays, I'd grown so accustomed to the mild noise pollution that was fairly sure I could probably sleep through a hurricane without waking up.

"So, this Jonathan…" Dylan dragged his name out slowly, in dramatic fashion. "He's keen on you, yes?"

I smiled at his use of the word 'keen', which sounded so antiquated and old-fashioned. "Well…" It was an uncomfortable subject with me. I liked Jonathan – liked him quite a bit, as a matter of fact – but I was hesitant to pursue anything with him just yet. There were a lot of issues in the way. "He actually asked me out tonight, but… I don't know."

"Well, you turned him down, obviously," Dylan said. "Or you wouldn't be here with me."

"Yeah. I just… I don't know if I'm ready for that just yet. Besides, we're working together and we have two classes together… I just think it might be better after this semester's over, you know?" I downed the last of my beer, hiccupping loudly when the bitter liquid nearly went down the wrong pipe. "I don't want things to get uncomfortable if something goes wrong. I mean, that would be just my luck. I'd have to work with _two_ pissed-off boys instead of just one."

"The more, the merrier," Dylan supplied, smiling lazily. He struggled to a sitting position and held his can up, as if making a toast. "That's what I say, anyway. And pissed-off boys can be kind of sexy." He wiggled his eyebrows at me. "I think it's kind of like the 'hard-to-get' thing. You make someone mad, then you have to _really_ work to win them back. It's like a game."

"A game?" I repeated. "How old are you, again?"

"Oh, lighten up, Sera. You need to have a little more play in your life. Have fun. Get laid if you need to – no, wait, I take that back. Get laid, _period_. If this guy's as cute and great as you say he is, go for it. Not all relationships have to be serious."

He said it in a joking tone, but I knew he was also chiding me in his own gentle way. And he had a point, I supposed, although he'd veered a bit from our original topic. After all, _I_ was the one always saying I was actually going to have a little bit of fun this go-round. And it wasn't like I was some virginal young girl pledging to save herself until marriage. Nick and I had taken care of _that_ before we were even out of high school.

"I know," I agreed, not wanting to delve further into this conversation. "Have fun, right. And yes, sex is fun." I snickered, suddenly feeling very juvenile. "I'll keep that in mind."

"Please do." He collapsed back onto the couch and grinned again. "Don't worry, pretty soon it'll be second nature. I had to tell myself the same thing when we first moved up here."

I nodded thoughtfully. Dylan wasn't any promiscuous by any means, but he'd had his share of boyfriends. I guessed his philosophy was the result of being raised in a town where homosexuality was automatically equated with a one-way ticket to hell. When he'd first told his parents he was gay, they'd gone through a number of steps – despair, anger, denial, and rejection. Moving to New York had been his saving grace – here, he could at least find kindred souls in the mass of millions, although the cost had been his relationship with his mother and father. Not exactly a fair deal.

And there… there in itself was a whole other side of the story. Dylan was gay; he believed that he'd been born gay and thus had never had any choice in the matter. Was that something that could – or _should_ – be 'prevented' before birth? Or again, was it better to just let nature run its course?

"Okay… I'm gonna get serious for a minute. This is going on something of a tangent, but since we've been talking about my debate and while I'm thinking about it, let me ask you this…" I formed the sentence slowly, trying to articulate my question just right. It was something of a difficult task, as I'd already gone through three beers. Better to ask now before my brain cells became incapable of absorbing useful information.

"Let's say there was a 'homosexual' gene…" I continued. "Just for argument's sake. And say your parents could have eliminated it from the get-go. You would have been straight from the very beginning. Would you have wanted that? Would it have made your life easier?"

Dylan paused, taking a few moments to think over the question. He had an endearing habit of tugging on his ear whenever he was deep in thought, and I watched as he fiddled with the gold stud in his left lobe.

"No and yes, respectively," he said. "Would it have made my life easier? Hell, yeah. No doubt about that. But would I want that? No. Think of the people I never would have met…" He shook his head vehemently. "I think everyone's meant to be born as they were. For better or worse."

I curled my legs up underneath me and clasped my hands in my lap. He mirrored my thoughts exactly, and that was my problem – finding someone who could at least _show_ me a reasonable argument otherwise. How was I ever supposed to argue _for_ PGD when I couldn't really find any way to reconcile it in my own mind?

"Yeah," I said softly. "Yeah. I agree."

**xxxxx**

_October 20, 2006_

"Sera? Sera?" The phone crackled, and I stood up, hoping (in vain, of course) to get a better signal. My cell phone provider wasn't exactly top of the line, but it was all I could afford. Which unfortunately meant that my conversations were often cut short or altogether completely unintelligible. Jonathan was learning that the hard way.

"Hang on…" I was at the Walter Doran Memorial Library, hanging out in the lobby as I waited for Jonathan and Warren to show up. We were meeting yet again to compare speech notes – we'd finally decided on speaking order, so our arguments had to be presented in a logical manner. I was going first and providing the intro, which I actually thought was a relief – I could get the whole thing over with. Then, Jonathan would go into depth about the pros of PGD, and Warren would give the rebuttal speech. His was actually the hardest, as it would require the most extemporaneous speaking, but he'd _offered_ to do it. I'd been floored, but had eagerly agreed without a single complaint – my philosophy was 'better him than me.' Jonathan, however, had started to make a nasty comment – more than likely just to goad Warren – but I'd swiftly kicked him in the shins under the table and put an end to it.

I scurried outside, thinking that maybe being out in the open would help matters. "Okay," I said. "Can you hear me?"

"Barely… but it'll have to do. Look, Sera, I'm really sorry… but I can't make it tonight. My car's got a flat. I'm out on Sixth right now trying to fix it, but it's gonna take awhile…"

"What?" I felt an odd rush of panic. I'd spoken to Warren alone before, of course, but sitting down with him for an extended period of time was not something I'd experienced. Nor was it something I particularly _wanted_ to experience. I hated awkward conversations, and he was certainly the king of those… "Are you serious?"

"Yeah." His voice was sympathetic and sincere, but I still felt a slight dig of irritation all the same. Was he really being serious? Or was this just a ploy to get back at me for turning him down Saturday night? He knew how awful my evening would be…

I quickly dismissed the thought, however, realizing that the city was making me too paranoid for my own good. "Well, okay," I said slowly. "Get it fixed and be careful..."

"Yeah. You be careful, too." He chuckled, the static buzzing throughout. "Don't let him get to you."

"I'll be fine. I'll see you in class." I flipped the phone shut and sighed. Wandering back into the library lobby, I collapsed on one of the benches and pulled out my notes and the day's newspaper, which I'd brought for our meeting. There was a short blurb in the World News section which I'd found particularly interesting – a write-up talking about a so-called 'cure' for mutations. Which could possibly be relevant to our argument – except, instead of science taking a preemptive action before birth, it was a post-puberty way to 'fix' mutants. Was that a better idea? To maybe let the person decide for him or herself whether they wanted to be 'cured'?

I tapped my foot against the tile floor, waiting impatiently.

_It's ten after six already. Maybe he won't show at all, and I can just go home…_

"Hey."

I shifted my eyes up, first looking at a pair of Nike sneakers and jeans. I inwardly sighed again – looked like I wasn't off the hook, after all – and peered up at Warren.

"Hey, Warren," I said, mustering as much enthusiasm as I could. I would continue to be nice to him in person, no matter what. That had been Dylan's advice to me, when I'd complained ad nauseam about his attitude. The whole 'kill him with kindness' strategy, I supposed. I offered him a sweet smile. "How's it going?"

"Fine." He shifted his feet, hands stuffed in his pockets. He looked almost childish, especially with the big, thick straps of his backpack hanging from each shoulder. His blonde curls were a little askew, as if he'd just come in from fighting a strong wind.

"Well," I said. "Jonathan won't be here. He had an emergency come up…"

"What a shame." One side of his mouth curled into a smirk for the briefest of seconds – so quick that I was sure he thought I didn't notice. I suppressed the urge to roll my eyes.

"So it's just you and me tonight," I continued. "Shall we find a table and get started?"

"Sure."

I crammed my stuff back into my bag and stood up. The study carrels and tables were upstairs, so I headed for the nearest stairwell. Warren followed behind me, his shoes squeaking against the tile floor.

**xxxxx**

"…so that's the plan. In a nutshell, just explaining a little about PGD… its background, history, what it means for parents." I shifted a little in my seat, scooting closer to Warren. There were other people studying, so we were trying to keep our voices as low as possible. I was actually having trouble hearing him – he was naturally a soft-spoken person, despite his often hard-edged words.

I noticed, however, that for every inch closer I moved to him, he discreetly scooted about the same distance away. I was almost offended. I'd heard of people needing their personal space before, but this was borderline ridiculous.

"Okay," he said. "And then what? Are you going to start in on the pros?"

I wrinkled my nose. "No. I'll let Jonathan's part do all that work. I just want to introduce it and let them know what's coming. And…" I reached into my bag and pulled out the newspaper. "I found something interesting today that I could also bring up." I unfurled the newspaper on the table, smoothing it out and pointing to the news blurb. "Have you heard anything about this 'cure' for mutants?"

He flinched, his expression pulling into a grimace. It was super-short, just as the smirk had been earlier, and if I hadn't been looking directly at him when I'd asked the question, I would have missed it. "Yeah," he finally said. "I have."

"I mean, I just saw this here, I hadn't heard anything about it. Do you know anything? How it works, or anything like that?"

His mouth opened slightly, and he didn't look at me, but rather behind my shoulder. The lack of eye contact gave his expression an unfocused, bewildered appearance. He seemed to be struggling with what to say, as if he was trying to remember something. I just waited patiently, studying him. He had blue eyes. I'd known that for awhile, obviously, but this was the closest I'd been to him, the first time I'd been able to truly look. They were a pale, icy shade, a perfect match for his chilly demeanor.

"It's a shot that controls, or maybe just kills off, the X-gene," he said. "That's all I know."

"Like an allergy shot or something? Weird," I mused. "Are they going to sell this here? Or maybe give it out for people who need or want it, like they do with birth control?"

He finally met my eyes. "That's all I know," he repeated, his voice rising a little. Some students nearby turned to glare at us, and I held my fingers to my lips, shushing him.

"Okay, okay," I said. "Anyway, I thought that it was an interesting bit of info. And it adds a new spin on things. Something we need to keep in mind, especially you, because the other side could bring it up and you'd have to talk about it in the rebuttal."

He sighed, dropping his head forward and running one hand through his hair. His hair was thick, but the curls weren't unruly. I imagined that if he let it grow out it would just be wavy, rather than the crazy spring curls I'd seen on some guys. His sleeve dipped down when he lifted his arm, and I noticed that he had a bandage wrapped around his wrist.

"Hey, what happened to your wrist?" I asked.

He looked startled, immediately sitting up straight. Confusion flitted across his face for a moment before he saw that I was pointing to his left hand. "Just a scratch," he mumbled. "Ran into a door frame. Now what were you saying?"

_A door frame? Hard enough to warrant a big bandage on your arm?_

I leaned forward. "The questions that could come up if the other side talks about the cure. Like, is it better to 'fix' things before they happen, or after they happen, thus letting the person have a choice in the matter?" I stopped, grimacing. "Of course, it doesn't really make a difference when it comes to the argument about whether mutations should count as a real 'problem' or not. But I guess that's a whole other argument altogether."

He rolled his head to one side and slumped back into the chair. Warren, like Dylan, didn't look like a slob when he slouched. But unlike Dylan, he didn't look particularly graceful, either. He just looked… invisible, if that made sense. Someone you could easily walk by without ever noticing. How was it that someone with such high-profile parents could be so indiscernible? It seemed he'd perfected the art of not being noticed. If I'd never heard his name the first day of class, I doubted I would have even realized he existed.

"You don't think they're a problem?" he asked after a minute.

"I don't know," I said. "I mean, growing up, I was always told that they were… but now, I don't know."

"What changed your mind?" He was intently gazing at me, and I realized that for the first time _ever_, he seemed interested in the conversation at hand.

"Well…" Whether it was because his arch nemesis wasn't here, or whether he was simply interested in the topic, I didn't know. But I decided to follow his line of thought and see where it led, all the same. "I work at this bar, McCarthy's… and one night, we weren't busy at all, so my manager ran down the street to get some dinner. I was there alone. And…" I paused, shuddering at the memory. "This guy came in and robbed me. He had a gun. But before he could get away with anything… or before he could shoot me, for that matter… one of the guys in the bar came up and… and stopped him." I held out both hands, closing them into fists. "He had… he had claws. Three on each hand. They came out of his knuckles, right here..."

Warren blinked. "Claws," he repeated. He didn't look shocked, actually, which kind of surprised me. But then, he'd grown up in New York, so I guessed maybe he'd had a little more experience with mutants than I had.

"Yeah… but they were like… metal. It looked like he had gigantic ginsu knives sticking out of his hands… but anyway, needless to say, he put an end to the whole thing… the guy with the gun looked about as scared as I was… but my manager came back, and _he_ thought the clawed guy was just threatening someone in the bar. It was madness. But yeah… the guy just retracted them back into his hands after that, just like it was nothing…" I shook my head in wonderment, recalling the metallic swoosh those claws had made going in and out. "I mean, he possibly saved my life."

"And then what happened?" He sat up a little straighter, and I knew he was actually engrossed, eager to hear more. I nearly fell out of my chair.

_Is this for real? Warren, is that you?_

"I… I don't know the details. I passed out," I admittedly sheepishly. "The guy trying to rob me was arrested, and my manager threw the clawed guy out of the bar because he has a 'no-mutant' policy… ironic, huh? He used to come in at least once a week and order Molson Black Ices. But I haven't seen him since."

"Typical," Warren said.

"But unfair. I never even got to thank him." I glanced at the paper then, and pulled out another section – the local news. Folding it flat, I smacked it down on the table for effect. "And, of course, this guy." I pointed to the latest article about the 'Angel': **THE** **ANGEL AVENGES THE BIG APPLE AGAIN!** God, those people had a crazy love for alliteration. "How can anyone argue that he's a problem? All he's doing is saving people's lives…"

Warren's eyes slowly wandered over to the paper, but his head remained still, facing me. I tapped the Angel article, but he didn't move to read it. "Hmph," he said.

"Besides, having claws is one thing…" I continued, going full-speed ahead. "I can see how people would be scared of that… I mean, he _did_ scare me, but it's just because I was so shocked and overwhelmed by the moment, anyway… but the Angel? He's got _wings_, for heaven's sake… how is that going to hurt anyone?"

Warren raised one eyebrow, looking for a moment like he might laugh. "You'd be surprised," he said cryptically.

I chuckled. Standard stubbornness from Warren – he liked to argue over the silliest things, though usually with Jonathan and not me. "What, is he going to flap someone to death? Smother them with feathers?" I stopped, considering some other possibilities. "Well, I guess he could drop someone from the sky, but beyond that, I just don't see the threat."

"I see." He finally moved, shifting in his seat – it was starting to creep me out, how eerily still he'd been sitting – and rested his elbow on the table. I expected him to say something further, but he didn't elaborate. Behind him came a loud crash when a girl dropped a heavy textbook on the floor. I jerked, startled, but he didn't react at all.

I reached up to scratch my neck, feeling very awkward. "So, yeah. There's your reasons. I think being up here in the city, and maybe being introduced to it has kind of made me think that my elders weren't always right, you know? It wouldn't be the first time." I paused. "What about you?"

"What about me, what?"

"Your opinion. Do _you_ think they're a problem?"

He looked uncomfortable now that the tables were turned and I was asking _him_ questions. What was his deal? We'd been doing fine all evening, he hadn't seemed _too_ discomfited since he'd arrived; he'd even opened up a bit and started conversing like a normal human being there for a minute… God, he was so frustrating. How was he ever going to be a decent successor to his father if he didn't learn how to act around other people?

I smiled at him encouragingly, hoping to put him a little more at ease.

"I don't know," he mumbled. I repressed the urge to sigh.

"Well, I grew up in a small town, and I'd never come across a mutant in my life until I came to New York," I said. "But you grew up here, right? Do you know any? Or do you have any experience with them?"

"No," he said shortly. "Not personally. I've just read a lot about them." His tone changed with those last few words, making it clear he was done with conversation. Therefore, I wasn't surprised to hear the next thing out of his mouth. Warren was master of random, turnabout dialogue, plus he was always looking for an excuse to leave. "What time is it?"

I twisted my wrist, checking my watch. My eyes widened a little. "It's seven-thirty," I said, surprised. Damn, had we been there that long? Didn't seem like it.

He swept up his papers, straightening them up and tossing them into his backpack. "I should go," he said. "I've got… I've got work to do."

"Yeah, same here." I shook my head as I gathered my things. I couldn't even be upset – I'd gotten too used to his weirdness to take too much offense at his eagerness to leave. Besides, he had a point – I hadn't intended to stay so long, either, and I had other errands to attend to before the evening was over.

I threw my bag over one shoulder and followed to leave – he was practically halfway out of the library by the time I'd stood, so I quickened my steps to catch. My heels clicked loudly on the smooth, polished floors as I ran, and I cringed when the sound reverberated around the spacious indoors. I got a reproachful look from the security desk supervisor as I scurried by, so I gave him a hangdog grin of apology.

I caught up with Warren just as we reached the doors to the outside. As we stepped into the cooler air, I wrapped my coat snugly around me, cinching it at the waist. He shrugged into a long trench coat, and without acknowledging me, began walking towards the parking lot. I didn't own a car anymore, so the subway was my main method of transportation and it was about five minutes in the opposite direction. I took a few half-hearted steps that way before stopping.

"Goodnight, Warren," I said, calling to him as he swiftly strode towards his car. My Appalachian country-girl manners wouldn't let me leave without at least attempting a proper farewell. "Thanks for coming."

For a minute, I thought he didn't hear, or maybe he was just choosing to ignore me. But before I could shrug and move on, he stopped, turning halfway and slowly looking over his shoulder. He met my eyes, and I noticed an unguardedness that hadn't been there earlier.

"Yeah," he said. "No problem. Thank you." With that, he promptly turned again and resumed the trek to his car. Effectively leaving me standing, open-mouthed, at yet another of his strange changes of disposition. Thanking me? For what? Doing my job?

I snorted a little, taking long, labored strides towards the subway terminal. What a strange, strange boy. I had the distinct feeling that I know him for the rest of my life and still never _truly_ be able to figure him out.

**xxxxx**

_November 2, 2006_

Despite his still-erratic behavior, I felt I'd made a real breakthrough with Warren. I wasn't sure exactly what I'd done or how, but after the time we'd met alone at the library, he wasn't quite as frosty to me. He still treated Jonathan like dirt, but responded politely to my questions and offered me help whenever I needed it.

I even caught him smiling once. During one of our meetings, I'd made a really awful, corny joke about the Gap Baby store really being a Preimplantation Genetic Diagnosis clinic ('designer babies', get it? Yeah, it was terrible). Jonathan had groaned, but Warren had actually laughed at the terribleness of it, though he made the effort not to be noticed.

It was surprising how much of a difference that simple gesture made – normally, he was a good-looking guy, but cold and standoffish. Beautiful in an untouchable, Ken-doll type of way. The smile had softened his hard eyes, lightened his face. I'd thought about telling him he should do it more often, but decided against it. He didn't seem the type who would appreciate such a comment.

"How was your Halloween?" Jonathan asked. We were at Café Eva again – it was one off-campus place that all three of us could actually agree on. The library was only open until ten o'clock, which I thought was completely ridiculous, so anytime we had to meet late we came here. Warren hadn't arrived yet, which wasn't surprising. I'd learned not to hold my breath when it came to his attendance.

"It was good," I said, grinning. "We went to Club 141 for their 'Monster Mash Bash'. I ate too much, drank too much, and then got felt up while I was dancing with a guy dressed as Fozzie Bear. Good times all around."

Jonathan raised a dark eyebrow. "Well, that explains why you weren't in class Wednesday. Hangover?"

"Like you wouldn't believe." I groaned. "Felt like my head was splitting open."

"Been there. Not pretty." He sipped on his coke, and I could tell by the way his brow was furrowed that he was about to change his line of thinking. "What about your meeting the other night?" he asked casually, gently stirring the straw in his cup. "How'd that go?"

"With Warren?" I glanced around surreptitiously, as if I expected him to be behind me, eavesdropping. "It was fine."

"Really," Jonathan said, his voice dry.

"Yeah, really. He was fine. He was in a decent mood, overall. No trouble." I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, staring down at the table. For some reason, I suddenly felt bad talking about Warren when he wasn't here. I'd had no problem ranting and raving about his attitude in the past, but I was beginning to feel a little guilty about it now.

"A good mood, huh? Must have just checked his stock prices," Jonathan muttered under his breath.

I gave him an annoyed look, but ignored that comment. "We just talked about what we planned on saying, and I brought up the cure issue, and then we talked about it briefly."

"The cure, huh?" He smiled. Jonathan had made it clear that he thought mutants were the bottom-feeders of the earth. Whenever he saw the Angel's picture in the paper he tended to throw it down in disgust and declare that he couldn't _believe_ anyone would trust a creature like that. So judging from his reaction, I guessed that he thought the cure was a dandy idea. "I saw something about that on the news last night. Did he give you any inside information about it?"

"Inside information?" I repeated. "What? No…"

His eyebrow shot up again. "No?"

"No. Why do you say that?"

Jonathan snorted, causing the couple at the table next to us to look up in curiosity. "Oh, maybe because his _father_ is one of the financiers…"

"_What?" _my jaw dropped. "He never mentioned that…"

"Figures," he muttered. "Yeah, saw it on the news. He and a few other private citizens donated millions to the lab to fund it. Apparently it's been going on for years."

"You're serious," I said, dumbfounded. "Now why wouldn't he have told me that?"

"Why does he do _anything_ that he does?" Jonathan said, anger tinting his words. "Why does he not show up half the time? Why does he never contribute anything? Why does he act like the world revolves around him?"

_He's not **that** bad, Jonathan, calm down…_

I sighed, rubbing my forehead. Jonathan never needed an excuse to tear down the guy's character, but Warren, for his part, gave him ample opportunity. And even I was bugged that he hadn't so much as mentioned that he had a 'connection' to the cure… I mean, he probably _could_ get us some behind-the-scenes information on it… and even if he couldn't, why keep it a secret?

"Well, I don't think he's gonna show tonight," I said finally, wishing to move away from this conversation and on to something more productive. It was just after ten o'clock and I was exhausted. "Let's go ahead and start."

**xxxxx**

The walk to the subway from Café Eva was fairly short and well-lit, but I had a few qualms about going it alone (I'd learned that naiveté was no excuse in this city). I strode as briskly as possible, clutching my tiny bottle of mace and wishing that I'd taken Jonathan up on his offer to walk me to the station.

The regular lights of the city were normally so bright that they washed out the stars of the sky, but tonight there was a full moon and it shone brightly overhead. It hung low; a giant, white disc in the sky. I briefly looked up, taking in the dizzying contradiction of nighttime and blinding luminosity. Back home, where streetlights were nearly non-existent, nights were dark, dotted only with the moon and the faint twinkling of stars. I much preferred the black stillness and the rhythmic sound of crickets breaking the silence of the early-early morning. Bright nights were phenomena I'd yet to get used to.

And then, just before I turned away, something caught my eye. I did a double-take, not believing what I was seeing.

Flying across the backdrop of the moon, just like E.T. in the movie, was a tiny figure, sailing rapidly across the night sky. Too large to be a bird, too small to be any type of aircraft. It disappeared behind a skyscraper a moment later, lost to the night again. The Angel, Avenging the Big Apple Again?

And then I grinned, wide-eyed, suddenly feeling a little safer.


	9. Chapter 7: Alone

**A/N:** First off, thank you all for continuing to read this story. I apologize for a lull in updates, and I know some of you might be wondering what's up. I don't want to go into detail (and I'm not looking for pity), but for those of you who saw the news about Flight 5191 that crashed in Kentucky, that happened in my city. And I knew four people on board -- I worked with them. So it's been a very rough couple of weeks for me. I only started writing again this past weekend, and I actually think it's helped. It's kind of soothing. So, again, I'm not asking for your pity or apologies, I'm really just asking for your patience. I am hoping to get back into the swing of regular writing now that things have calmed down a bit. And for anyone that I've accidentally ignored, I'm sorry -- I need to check my reviews/email to see if I've missed anyone.

Okay, enough of that. This is a fairly long chapter, and not my favorite to write (which you'll probably understand by the end), but the next chapter I _am_ looking very much forward to writing, so that's good. :) And this chapter kind of takes a cue from the _X-Men: Evolution_ cartoon (kind of). If you've seen the episode where Angel is introduced you'll understand. As I said before, there are elements of the comics/movies/cartoon all sort of mixed together in this fic.

On a random side note, doesn't that show _Heroes_ that's coming out look like a total X-Men rip-off? Jeez. They even have a dude who teleports and a girl who can't be physically harmed. I'll probably watch it out of curiosity, but I'm a little miffed all the same.

Anyway, again, thanks. Looking forward to getting the next part up for you all. :)

* * *

**Chapter Seven: Alone**

November 21, 2006  
_Warren_

I used to love Thanksgiving. It was higher on my list of favorite holidays than Christmas, as a matter of fact. Christmastime was hectic; frenzied. In addition to the traditional last-minute scrambling to buy gifts, it always meant long dinners and get-togethers with my mother's catty extended family or my dad's stiff, formal brothers. I didn't like either set of relatives, as they both had a tendency to suck the fun and good spirit out of every possible situation. My mother's aunts and cousins were gossips, systematically taking down every person in our upper-class social circle and dissecting them bit by bit. My paternal uncles were just plain boring – discussions of capital investments, bonds, and stocks never interested me, and never would.

Thanksgiving, however, was always a small family affair. Me, my mother, and my father, and no one else. And that's what I'd always loved about it – it was a weekend of fantastic food and spending some real one-on-one time with my parents, which was a difficult feat. Their busy lives meant that there were always meetings to attend to, clients to converse with, trade deals to be solidified. But they were adamant about never letting business interfere with the holidays, so every year on the third weekend in November, I could count on them both to be home and stay there.

Of course, Thanksgivings were a little different now. I still liked the chance to spend some time with my parents, but I had to stay on guard constantly, wearing just the right clothes and locking my bedroom door at night and when I changed… just in case. And when I'd first announced that I had decided to go vegetarian, their reaction had been total confusion. I couldn't blame them – it wasn't as if I'd developed new food allergies, or became a rampant animal-rights activist or anything of the ilk. I'd loved bacon, steak, fried chicken and oven-roasted turkey with dressing just as much as any other teenage boy. And my mother's first question, in fact, had been, "But what about my Thanksgiving turkey? Will you eat that?"

Turkey? Truthfully, turkey and chicken were the worst. I often thought that it shouldn't be that big of a deal to eat poultry. I'd eaten it all my life, why would it be any different now? Just because I had wings? They were just an extension of my human body, right? I was still about 80 man… at least, that's what I tried telling myself.

But every time I saw it on the plate – _especially_ the Thanksgiving turkey, with its bare, plucked wings folded back – I felt sick to my stomach. It was an automatic response that I couldn't control. Just the thought of my body looking like that, bony and stripped down to the tender pink skin, was enough to send little shivers of revulsion right through me.

So I'd had to tell my mother that no, no I wouldn't eat the Thanksgiving turkey. She had been upset, to say the least, but there was nothing I could do about it. This would be the third year since my change, so I think it had finally started to settle into my parents' minds that I was serious. The last time I'd talked to her, she had mentioned some new dishes she was going to try for the holiday – and I'd discreetly noticed that none of them contained any meat.

I curled up in bed, tucking my legs in close and lazily stretching my wings behind me, being careful not to knock the glass of water off the nightstand. I'd been willing myself to get some sleep for several hours now. Tomorrow was Wednesday, and though we still had classes the day before Thanksgiving (a policy I vehemently disagreed with), I was skipping them all and heading over to my parents' place mid-day. And while I would get to sleep in a little in the morning, I still wanted to wake up early enough to pack, clean and get some errands done before leaving. I was supposed to drop off a book to Sera before lunch, return the DVDs I'd rented from Movie Palace, and pick up some new Office software for my computer.

Sera... I opened my eyes, staring into the darkness. I wasn't sure what to think of her anymore. Originally, I'd blown her off. From the outside, she appeared to be just another opinionated know-it-all. She was polite, of course, I'd always credited her that, but her age, the way she came across in class sometimes, and how she took charge during our group meetings had led me to dismiss her. But getting to know her personally, especially in these past few weeks, had softened my original views. She was older, but never used it as an excuse to have something done her way. She always spoke up in class with an opinion about something, but she was just naturally a talker, and always straightforward. And as for leading our group, well… I couldn't blame her. There was no way in hell I would let Jonathan tell me what to do and I knew he felt the same way towards _me_, so she'd fallen into the role de facto.

Plus, the fact that she didn't hate mutants was probably the biggest draw. When she'd described the mutant she'd met, the man with the claws, she hadn't been disgusted or horrified. Just wondrous. When she'd held up her own hands, making fists and pointing out where the claws had come from, she'd looked fascinated. Curious, maybe, as if imagining where the knives were housed when retracted and how they came out.

And, of course, she'd taken up for the Angel in particular. And as much as I hated to admit it, that had probably been the biggest element in my change of judgment. It was like a stroke of my ego; _finally_ someone acknowledging all the work and I did and the risks I took while doing it. The newspapers and TV reported it, but they kept a mostly neutral stance, declining to either show their support or condemn me. Every once in a while, I would catch a piece of conversation about the Angel here and there while walking between classes, but it was usually just a fascination with the freak show. People (well, other than the victims themselves) didn't really appreciate what I was doing; they just liked having something to gossip about the next day.

I sighed and closed my eyes again, wondering why I couldn't seem to fall asleep. Rolling onto my stomach, I rested my head on my arms, breathing deeply. I'd had to learn other ways to sleep – before, I'd been strictly a back guy, usually sprawled out with limbs in all directions across the bed. Now, while lying on my back wasn't impossible, it was generally not very comfortable. I'd learned to sleep on my sides curled into a ball, or on my stomach. And I always slept with the wings free, hanging off the edge of the bed, even when I was home (hence the locked doors). I'd tried wrapping them up before going to bed once, and had awakened so cramped and sore the following morning that I hadn't been able to fly for days.

I suddenly smiled then, remembering Sera's sarcastic comment. _'He's got wings, for heaven's sake…. What, is he going to flap someone to death? Smother them with feathers?'_ Oh, if she only knew. I'd found the remark unusually funny for some reason, and it had taken every ounce of self-restraint not to snort.

_Okay, enough. Stop thinking so much_. I opened one eye, peering at the alarm clock across the room. 3:37AM. _Sleep_, my brain commanded. _Just relax and get some sleep…_

**xxxxx**

"Hey, Warren, how's it going?" Sera gave me one of her easygoing, crooked smiles and flipped her book closed. We were in the Student Center, our agreed-upon place to meet so I could give her the book. She was already there when I arrived, sitting on one of the marble ledges by the fountain with her legs neatly crossed. I caught a glimpse of the book she'd been reading – _Everything is Illuminated_.

I shifted from foot to foot as I dug around in my bag. "Oh, fine," I said. "How are you?"

"I'll be a lot better when this day is over. I've got a nine-hour drive with friends to West Virginia ahead of me after my last class. Should be fun." She tilted her head to the side. "What about you? Traveling anywhere for Thanksgiving?"

"No, my parents live across town. I'm going there next, actually." I pulled out the book – _Analysis and Principles of Genetics_ – and held it out to her. I'd come across the book in the library, and while I hadn't gleaned anything useful from it, Sera had said she'd like to take a look for herself and skim through.

She grabbed the book from my hand and held it up, inspecting the cover. "Looks fascinating," she said dryly. "Like a good cure for insomnia."

I smiled in spite of myself. Good point – maybe _that's_ what I should have done last night when I was having trouble sleeping. "Yeah," I said. "Pretty much."

"Well, thank you very much," she said, her eyes crinkling up in a smile. She was always so gracious when it came to even the littlest things, always prefacing a request with 'please' and never forgetting to say 'thank you'. I wasn't really used to that – New Yorkers tended to be blunt and clipped.

"You're welcome," I mumbled. I automatically looked away from her – I'd gotten so used to avoiding people's eyes, and she was one of those types who could stare directly at you without wavering. Just like my mother. "Okay. I'm gonna—"

"Hey, I'm getting ready to go eat lunch," she said, interrupting me. She stood up, tucking her books away and dusting off the front of her faded jeans. She pointed to a set of glass double doors to our left. The doors led to a covered walkway, which connected the Student Center to the food court. "You want to join me?"

"What? I—well, I don't, I don't know—" The question threw me, and for once, I found myself stuttering and unsure what to say. Normally when girls asked me out, I'd respond with a quick 'no' and brusqueness. But the thought struck me that this was different. One, Sera wasn't interested in me, her flirtations with Jonathan more than proved that. This wasn't a date request, it was just a casual offer thrown out; a request for companionship so she wouldn't have to eat lunch alone.

And two… I actually considered saying yes. Hell, I _wanted_ to say yes…

Sera raised one eyebrow, chuckling. "It's okay, Warren," she said dryly. "I know you've got stuff to do. Just thought I'd ask." She slung one strap of her bag over her shoulder. "Hey, have a great Thanksgiving. I'll see you next Sunday night, right? Seven o'clock."

My face heated up, and I wondered why I felt so disheartened at declining her offer. She started to walk away, but I reached out and touched her arm without thinking. Startled at my own boldness, I hastily retracted it. _What the hell am I doing? _I felt my wings twitch slightly under their wrapping, a common occurrence whenever I was agitated.

She stopped and turned, giving me a questioning look. "Hey," I said softly. "I didn't mean—I'd like to, but I'm supposed to be over there by one, so…" I trailed off. "Thanks for asking," I finished lamely. God, what was my problem? Why was I acting like a big pussy? _Get out, Worthington. Leave right now before you make yourself look even more stupid._

She smiled again, and nodded oddly, hitching her bag further up her shoulder. "I know. Not a big deal, Warren. No offense taken."

"Yeah." I looked down, scuffing one sneaker against the carpet. There was something white on the floor, fluttering gently with each movement of my shoe. I felt my eyes widen, and I quickly slid my foot over, covering it up. "Well, see you later," I said hurriedly. "You have a good Thanksgiving, too."

"I most certainly will." She strolled away then, giving me a quick wave as she went. I stood in the same spot and watched her leave, letting my eyes linger on the way her jeans hugged her curves; snug but not too tight. She had a nice body, Sera… kept it covered up most of the time, unlike her younger counterparts, but everything she wore fit her so well…

_Why couldn't I just go to lunch with her? Just as friends? Nothing serious… there's nothing wrong with just talking to someone… what's the big deal?_

I mentally slapped myself. Looking down again, I slowly moved my foot, staring at the crushed white feather lying on the carpet. This happened from time to time – older feathers were jarred loose and sometimes they slid out from under my shirt, or even the bottoms of my jeans. That one had probably come out when my wings were twitching.

_**That's** the big deal, Worthington. That, in case you've forgotten, is the reason you can't go to lunch with her_. Sighing heavily, I bent down and picked it up, sliding it into my coat pocket. Right. I'd kept people at a distance for so long that I'd nearly forgotten how nice it was to do normal things… simple, everyday events, like going have a quick lunch with a classmate. But I couldn't let her, or _anyone_, for that matter, get too close. One lunch might not be such a big deal, but it could lead to others, which would lead to others… it would get too easy to let down my guard. I'd probably done it too much already…

I turned and headed for the door, walking past the indoor fountain and the glass windows of the campus bookstore. And since it was obviously beginning to become a problem, I really, _really_ needed to get my libido under control. Sera wasn't the only girl I'd ogled today (though the fact that I'd done it to _her_ bothered me the most). My sex life, obviously, was non-existent and had been for years. Whether it was because I was deprived more (a _hell_ of a lot more) than most, or whether it was just the fact that I was normal, young horny male, it took very little to pique my interest, as it were. Which presented a problem – this campus was chock-full of pretty little things. It wasn't that I wished that I could fuck them all – I'd slept with a couple of girls, sure, but all of them had been serious girlfriends, and it was never something I'd taken too lightly. But it would just be nice to be able to touch someone like that again, to be close and undressed and pressed up closely against a woman's bare body… and to experience that heady rush and release…

I flung the doors of the Student Center open, grateful for the bitterly cold wind. Thinking about my sexual frustrations only served to make them worse, and I needed something to cool off my flushed skin. I wanted so badly to hit the air – flying always seemed to calm me down, no matter how bothered I was – but it was unfeasible at the moment. My parents were expecting me shortly, as I'd told Sera… and it was daytime anyway, and thus too risky even for a quick jaunt into the sky.

I sighed. Getting away from it all for a few days probably would do me a lot of good. Pulling my keys from the front pocket of my coat, I set down the sidewalk, heading for my car.

**xxxxx**

_November 26, 2006_

"It was so good to see you, honey," my mother said, pulling me into a hug. I tried not to jump as I returned the embrace, praying that she wouldn't press too hard and feel the unusual, soft curve of my back. I kissed her cheek before withdrawing.

"Yeah," I said. "I had a good time this weekend." And for once, I meant that. I'd needed some time away from my 'normal' life – I'd spent the past few days relaxing, lounging around my parents' condominium, stuffing my face full of delicious food, and actually conversing with my parents. I hadn't flown in all that time, but rather than getting twitchy and agitated, I'd felt something like relief. It was a respite from playing the roles of top student, loner, superhero.

"You should come over more often," my father added in. He set down the scotch he'd been holding, strolling over to give me his version of an embrace – a manly half-hug and light pat on the back.

"Yeah, I know," I murmured. "I could use a little of Mom's cooking more often. I get tired of doing it myself." I smiled at her, and she beamed happily, brushing stray, graying wisps of hair out of her face.

"Good," she declared. "But I swear, Warren, I've never seen anyone eat so much in my life… where do you put it?" She reached over and attempted to pinch my side, and I yelped, hopping back. "Look at you! You're skin and bones!"

"I am _not_ skin and bones," I said indignantly. "I work out a lot. Lift weights, too." I lifted my arms and pretended to flex. Yeah, that was another unusual characteristic of my body, albeit one I never complained about – the face that it was _very_ easy for me to stay in excellent shape. My father had even commented on it – nowadays, he had the standard businessman's body, stout and soft but not too overweight. He'd been fit when he was younger, from how he talked and the pictures I'd seen, but he even said that I'd far surpassed him on that scale.

Mom pursed her lips, fighting off a grin. "Yes, I see. All grown up, big and strong…" She took on a wistful tone, and I felt an odd tug at my heart, remembering that on my sixteenth birthday she'd sounded similarly pensive.

I cleared my throat, bouncing glances back and forth between the two of them. "Well, I should go," I said. "I'm supposed to meet with Sera tonight…"

Mom raised an eyebrow. "Sera?" she piped up, slyly giving my father a knowing, sidelong glance. "You've talked about this 'Sera' an awful lot this weekend…"

To my horror, I felt my face flush. What the fuck was my problem? "What?" I said defensively. "I _told_ you, I see her a lot because of this project… she's a nice girl, but not my type. And very much _taken_, Mom," I added for emphasis. "You always make mountains out of molehills…"

She gave me a winning smile, the crow's feet wrinkling up around her eyes. That was another thing I admired about my mother – she was allowing herself to age gracefully. No plastic surgery, Botox injections, or bizarre skin creams for her – instead, she welcomed her wrinkles, especially her laugh lines, often telling me that she considered them representations of a life well-lived. She looked exactly like she should – a graceful, sophisticated 47-year old woman.

"Okay," she said in that _I-didn't-believe-a-single-word-out-of-your-mouth_ tone. "If you say so, Warren." She barely held back another mischievous grin. My mother always had _way_ too much fun whenever it came to me and girls. With Candy, she'd teased me incessantly about our 'puppy love' and all the silly things I'd said and done during that time… of course, this was different because I really had loved Candy, and Sera was just a girl that I had to see in class all the time, but still...

I briefly thought about the way I'd checked out Sera's ass the other day and cringed. Well, maybe she had a point.

God, I really needed to get laid.

"So, anyway…" I cleared my throat. "Again, I need to go… not just because of the meeting tonight. I've got a lot to do in the next two weeks…"

Mom reached up, affectionately pushing a lock of hair behind my ear. It was a familiar, comforting gesture, something she used to do to me as a child when my curls were mussed from running amok outside. "I know, honey," she murmured. "But take it easy, okay? You looked so stressed when you came… I don't want you to overtax yourself. Good grades are important, but they're not the end-all and be-all. Take care of yourself…"

I smiled thinly. If only the stress was only from grades… that would be kind of nice, actually… "Yeah, I know, I work too hard," I mumbled. I glanced over to my father, who had listened quietly to my mother's plea for me to take it easy. "I get that from Dad, I guess… worrying about everything being just right. The Worthington Perfectionist gene, maybe…"

Dad actually smiled at that. "True," he agreed amiably. "But even us perfectionists need a break." He came over and leaned against the bar, picking his scotch up and taking a quick sip. "You know, your mother and I are planning a trip to Florida this spring… you should come with us, Warren. I realize hanging out with your parents isn't the 'cool' thing to do anymore…" he paused, giving me a knowing smile. "…but it would be nice to relax and spend some time together as a family." He shrugged casually, as if to let me know there was no pressure there.

"Yeah, that would be nice…" I agreed quietly. And I meant it – it truly would – but I knew it would never happen. Going to the beach nowadays was out of the question, obviously, as the dress code was now out of my league, and thick, heavy shirts out in the humid Florida sun would raise just as much suspicion. I met my father's eyes, noticing the sincerity there. I nodded slowly, lost in thought. "It really would."

**xxxxx**

Christmas lights are truly obnoxious. There are some people in this world who know how to use them tastefully, but those are few and far between. I wrinkled my nose as I glided past an old, run-down apartment building lined with multi-colored flashing lights. It wasn't just that I thought all the lights were tacky and an eyesore – their frenetic pulsing also made it a little hard to see. Kind of difficult to focus on something far below on the street when there's a giant blinking set of reindeer in your line of vision…

Aggravated, I swept around the side of the building, easing up when I reached a patch of darkness. I slowed my pace, flapping my wings with several long, mighty strokes to put on the brakes, and landed gently on the rusty old fire escape. I cast a furtive glance in the window behind me – the insides were empty; apparently no one lived there. Good. Relaxing a bit, I allowed myself a moment to catch my breath.

I crouched down on the railing, resting. It was getting late – I'd met with Sera earlier in the evening, and although I probably should have gone on to bed and called it a night, I knew I needed to get out and fly.

Down below, there was a smattering of people walking the streets; couples holding hands, families with children, the occasional loners here and there. I noticed an older couple strolling arm-in-arm and immediately thought of my parents, still happy and content in their marriage after twenty-five years. They'd met in college. In, of all things, an elective tennis class. My mother had claimed that Dad pursued her relentlessly all semester, doggedly refusing to give up after repeated being told 'no'. She'd eventually given in, and, as they say, the rest is history… they'd married shortly after graduating, entered the family business together, and had me seven years later.

I exhaled loudly. Everything had gone so well for them… naturally, life was never perfect, there were occasional fights and spats, but overall, things had been great for the Worthington clan. Well, right up until I'd sprouted two extra appendages – at that moment, I'd become the only true, unavoidable 'flaw' in their world, though obviously they weren't aware of that. But it killed me to think that my life would never be that easy or satisfying. How was I supposed to grow up, get married and have children when I was like _this_? And what if – supposing that _somehow_ I met someone and actually _did_ marry her – what if my child became a mutant, too?

"Jesus," I muttered. Enough. I didn't like thinking of my future, or lack thereof. It was better to just take things one day at a time. Standing up, I stretched my body long and tall, reaching my arms high over my head to ease the muscles in my sides and back. I spread my wings out as far as they would reach, giving them an experimental twitch. _Okay_, I thought. _Good to go…_

And then, I felt _it_ again.

I've been stared at all my life, in some form or another. When I was younger, it was simply for being the blonde-haired, blue-eyed progeny of Warren and Katherine Worthington; the supposed spoiled rich brat. As I grew older and developed, it was often just for being an attractive teenage boy – not to sound arrogant, but it's simply the truth. And, of course, beyond that, it was because of my odd behavior. So, yeah, I'd been watched a lot over the years. Point being, I _knew_ what it felt like, and I was feeling it again, just as I had only a few weeks earlier. That odd, prickly sensation on the back of your neck, the kind that tells you that someone's monitoring you from afar. I'd had paparazzi attempt to take my picture before, both in my 'normal' life _and_ while I was 'working', of course, but this was different. This wasn't some guy angling to get a good shot so he could bring home a hefty paycheck from the _New York Star_. It felt like someone just idly watching… and waiting.

But as fantastic as my eyesight was – and God knows I'd been able to pick out things impossible to humans – I could see no one. I whipped my head back and forth, carefully scrutinizing the street below, the individual windows of the buildings across the street, the line of trees, the shadows. Nothing. Unsettled, I wasted no time in leaping off the fire escape and back into the air. Time to head out. I dove downward to gather some speed before sailing away as fast as my wings would take me.

**xxxxx**

I didn't see him at first. There were cop cars scattered all across the bridge, groups of people gathered around the railing, and the sound of sirens wailing into the relative silence of the night. Those caught my attention first – and judging by the hoopla, I'd been sure there was some sort of mass tragedy; a car wreck or something of the sort. But as I flew closer, I saw what the ruckus was about – a jumper.

They say that those who commit suicide by way of sleeping pills or wrist-cutting are not people who truly want to die. It's a cry for help, however intentional or not. Because, after all, those methods are reversible – someone can take you to a hospital to get your stomach pumped or your wrists stitched up. You can heal.

Other non-reversible ways, however, are serious, done by people who are really seeking death as a release, who are utterly, deeply depressed and hopeless. Putting a gun to your head. Jumping off a bridge. Methods that, once they're in motion, have no option of going back.

And that's why, when approaching the scene, I knew it was serious. Leaping from the Tremonte Bridge onto the hard, unforgiving concrete below wasn't a cry for help. It was an escape.

I flew closer and then stopped, bobbing in the air several hundred yards away. The man was on the thin outer ledge of the bridge, gripping onto the metal edge to keep from falling. There was another gentleman, an officer, leaning down, and I presumed he was attempting to coax the man back up. Although I wasn't sure how that was going to happen – the jumper was far out of reach from anyone's arms, and the cables that suspended the bridge made it difficult to fit any sort of equipment through. They could maybe throw him down a harness, but he was so haphazardly holding on that I didn't think he would be able to put one on without plummeting.

I bit my lip, indecisive. I'd never dealt with any incidents that had been _intentionally_ caused… helping people in accidents or fires was generally my line of specialty. But someone who was trying to end their life? I wasn't so sure I wanted to get involved…

And yet, I couldn't stop myself. Guilt? Necessity? Habit? I wasn't sure the reason, but I went for it. Taking a deep breath of the frosty night air, I let my wings push me forward and flew towards the scene. I debated which way would be best to approach him – straight on? From above? Or below? In the end, I decided to swoop lower and fly up – that way, if he fell or jumped, I'd be underneath anyway and in a better position to catch.

As I got closer, I heard the crowd react. _'Look!' 'Oh my God!' 'It's the Angel!'_ A quick glance from the side of my eye confirmed it – there were now several dozen people no longer staring at the jumper, but at _me _as I made a wide half-circle under the bridge. Never mind the suicidal man barely clinging to the side of the bridge – the freak show had just rolled into town… Smiling grimly, I ignored their points and stares and instead focused on my task. I was immensely grateful for my mask. Somehow, I felt more confident when I wore it.

I stretched my arms out, getting balanced as I flew straight up. From far back, I hadn't been able to see any features of the jumper – he'd had his head lowered, with longish, stringy salt and pepper hair dangling in front of his face. He wasn't a big man but slightly paunchy, I noted as I got closer, with a soft, round stomach and short legs and arms. And, I finally noticed, his eyes were squinted tightly shut. I flapped harder; once, twice, three times before rising directly before him. The crowd gave an audible gasp – this was probably the closest I'd ever been to so many people at once, and under the harsh fluorescent lights of the bridge, I knew they were getting a good, solid look at me. And again, I was _very_ grateful for the mask…

The people on the bridge above were screaming, shouting out suggestions, encouragement, disparagement, even some random insults. I pushed all that out of my mind. Taking another deep breath, I opened my mouth to speak. I wasn't sure exactly what I was going to say – what, introduce myself? 'Hello, I'm the Avenging Angel, nice to meet you'? Luckily, sort of, the man finally opened his eyes and noticed me before I could begin to talk, and he started the conversation for me.

"What the fuck?" he said hoarsely. "Are you– are you the—"

"Yes," I answered calmly. I held out one arm, beckoning him to me. "Come on."

"What are you doing?" His knuckles were white, his arms shaking from the exertion of hanging onto the ledge. I met his eyes, noticing the wild, unfocused glaze in them. Swallowing, I realized that perhaps I was in a bit over my head here – this man didn't look like the most stable of people, and I certainly had no experience whatsoever in dealing with psychological disorders.

"I'm here to help," I said, deciding to keep it short and simple.

He sucked in his breath deeply and let out a short, harsh bark of a laugh. "Help," he said bitterly, his words nearly unintelligible. His teeth were clenched together, spittle flying from his lips as he spoke. "You can't help _me_."

Oh, shit, here we go. A licensed psychologist, I was not. "I can help you get down," I said. "Come on." I propelled myself forward a bit, preparing to grab on to his arms and draw him in.

"_No_!" He lashed one hand out, smacking my chest with a loud thump, before lunging back and slamming himself against the bridge, curling into a little ball on the ledge. Above, I heard shrieks and gasps of surprise from the crowd, who were just as startled as me. I swore loudly, flailing my arms to regain my balance – he'd pushed _hard_. Jesus Christ. "_Leave me the fuck alone!"_

"Hey man, chill," I said, attempting to be as soothing as possible – which was difficult since I _really_ wanted to smack him back. I felt ridiculous, floating up there in front of him and attempting to coax him down like a frightened kitten from a tree. "It'll be okay. Just let me get you down from here and we'll find someone who—"

"You don't understand…" His voice changed then, taking on a sorrowful, hollow tinge. "I can't. I can't do it. My life is too fucked up. It's too much…"

"_Your_ life is fucked up?" I repeated. I knew I should have felt sympathy for the man, but instead a hint of anger began to boil under my skin. I actually crossed my arms, feeling a childish urge to argue with him.

"My wife just left me," he wept. He uncurled a little bit, raising his head and allowing me to see the beginnings of tears welling up in his eyes. "I was—I was—she caught me with another woman. I didn't mean to, it just happened… It's my fault, it's all my fucking fault…" He took a deep, ragged breath. "She won't let me see Clara. My little girl. She just up and left, packed and took Clara with her…"

I really did _not_ want to get into this conversation. Saving people from physical danger was one thing, saving them from _themselves_ was another thing entirely. "It will be okay," I finally replied, mainly because I wasn't sure what else to say. "There's no reason for you to… for you to do _this_. You'll get to see your daughter. Courts will make sure of that, even if you get divorced." My wings were beginning to get tired. Hovering in place was something that took a lot of effort and concentration. I tried to ignore the burning in my back as he spoke.

"She'll take all my money and my daughter. I don't want to be alone," he cried out, wailing. He slumped even further down, and I had the fleeting thought, as I studied his round, heavy body, that he looked kind of like what I'd always envisioned Humpty Dumpty would look like. "She's leaving, she hates me, and _I just can't do it anymore…_" His eyes fixated on mine, unwavering, and I noticed that his pupils were huge. Dilated. I wondered if he'd taken any sort of drugs before climbing up on Tremonte. "I don't want to be alone," he whispered again.

_I don't want to be alone_… that statement reverberated around my brain, bouncing around but refusing to leave. Alone? Fuck, I knew _all_ about that…

"Look," I said, speaking a little more gently this time. "It'll be okay. You've just got to give problems a chance to work themselves out…" I paused. It was probably selfish to turn this conversation towards me, but I didn't know what the hell else to tell him. "Look at me. Do you think _my_ life is easy?"

He didn't say anything. I felt increasingly uncomfortable under his steady gaze; he was sizing me up. Studying my build, my wings, probably the few features he could see.

_I don't want to be alone_… why couldn't I get that out of my head?

"Well, the point is," I said after a moment of uncomfortable silence, "that it's not. And I know yours isn't. And it's like that for a lot of people. But you do what you can, right? Suicide isn't going to solve anything. It's a cheap way out." I held out my arm again, this time a little more cautiously. "So come on. Let's get down, all right? I'm getting tired, and I'm sure you are, too."

I held that pose, arm outstretched for several long, excruciating minutes. The onlookers continued their shouts and stares, cars kept driving on the road below, and the wind still blew at a steady, chilly rate, ruffling my feathers and causing goosebumps to rise on my skin. Finally, the man moved, adjusting his body and giving me a fearful gaze.

"Okay," he whispered. I breathed a long, deep sigh of relief. He tentatively grabbed on to my arm, steadying himself.

"Good," I said, relieved. Now, how to get him down… I took a moment to size him up. He was too big to carry in my arms… I could maybe hold him in a bear-style hug, as awkward as that would be… "Okay, just lean towards me, give me your other arm, and—"

_CLINK!_

I heard the odd noise before I saw anything – a strange, metallic snapping, like the sound of a giant guitar string being broken. I whipped my head around, trying to figure what had happened and where it came from, when the shouts of the crowd above us intensified into screams. I heard another noise, a faint, whistling whip, and I finally looked up. And screamed.

"Holy _FUCK_!"

I barely had time to react. By sheer instinct, I grabbed the man in a crushing bear hug and kicked my feet against the bridge, propelling us backwards. He let out a little shriek of terror, grabbing onto me and digging his thick fingers into my skin. I grimaced at the sharp pressure, knowing that I'd have bruises in the morning.

The two of us hurtled away from the bridge helter-skelter. I gasped, struggling to reorient myself, get a better hold on the man, and leverage my wings. He was heavy, more so than I had anticipated. After several uncertain minutes, I managed to stop our teetering free-fall.

The man was whimpering in my arms, terrified. He was barely holding on – I hadn't had time to get a proper grip, and no matter how I shifted or lifted, I couldn't get him in a better hold. I looked up, studying the broken bridge cable with morbid fascination.

"What the fuck?" I whispered, more to myself. It was hanging limp over the bridge, right in the exact spot where we'd been. If I hadn't gotten us out of the way in time, then we would have been struck by it. I narrowed my eyes at the bizarre coincidence. _How did that happen?_ I wondered. _An accident? Too much weight on that side? Did something hit it or clip it? _Those cables were thick, industrial-grade metal… it would have taken some seriously heavy tools or machinery to tear them down.

"Put me down," the man cried out. His hysteria was rapidly rising, which I found ironic. So, the man who had been ready to fling himself off the edge only minutes before was now panicking at being held suspended in the air? "Put me down, put me down, put me down, put me—"

"Okay," I said loudly. I glanced up – the crowd had dispersed when the cable broke, running in all different directions, but people were cautiously beginning to return. "We're going." I turned my body, preparing to fly down to the ground below.

_CLINK!_

This time, I didn't even have a second to turn around.

You know how in movies, accidents happen in slow motion? When cars wreck, they tumble end-over-end in excruciating detail. When people are shot, they stumble for several long minutes, arms flailing and body twitching. When someone falls, it seems like they take forever before actually hitting the ground.

Only, it feels like it really does happen like that in real life, as well.

He was pulled from my arms. One moment, I was holding him in a bear hug, the next, he grew uncontrollably heavy and was sliding between the loop of my arms. I tried to grab him, but I wasn't fast enough. His hands grasped at me, at my body and clothes, ripping the long sleeve of my shirt when the pressure became too much. I cried out in surprise, looking down, watching him fall towards the road below.

_Whatthefuckwhatjusthappenedholyshitholyshitholyshit…_

The entire moment felt suspended in time. And then, as he fell further away from me, I noticed something disturbing. The torn ends of the two cables – the one that had broken first, and the one that had just broken – were wrapped around the man's legs, the way a boa constrictor wraps around a victim. It didn't make sense even to my own keen eyes; I couldn't wrap my head around the visual, but there was no mistaking it – the cables had somehow wound themselves around his ankles, and they had been what pulled him from my arms.

_What just happened! What the fuck is going on here!_

"He let him fall!" I heard the horrified screams above me. "Oh my God, he let him fall!"

_No! No, weren't you watching? Didn't you **see** that!_ But I already knew the answer to that. _I_ could see what had happened, sure, but no one up on the bridge had the eyes of a hawk… And I was sure that when that second cable had snapped, everyone had run for cover again and not seen the man being pulled from my arms.

But I didn't bother to defend myself to the audience by explaining all that. Instead, I folded my wings back and hurtled downward, determined to dive-bomb my way back to the man to catch him. There was still a chance…

"Hang on," I shouted to him, knowing that my words were probably lost in the rushing wind. I thrust my arms out in front of me to deflect the air, the way a diver does to minimize splash. I was gaining ground rapidly – I'd done the diving thing before, but never so fast or fierce. I fell down, down, straight down. Edging closer and closer…

_Stop it, Worthington… you have to stop… put on the brakes, or you're going to hit the ground, too…_ I was getting dangerously close to the asphalt below, and getting nearer by the second – it took a certain amount of time and technique to successfully pull myself out of a dive, and I knew that the cut-off point was only seconds away. I was so close to him, though… God, he was only a few feet away, but I just couldn't reach…

I blinked, a thought bursting into my head with frightening force and truth._ If I don't stop, I'm going to die._

I was faced with a choice – do the supposed 'noble' thing by catching up with the man and praying that we both wouldn't shatter every last bone in our bodies on impact, or do the selfish thing by pulling off and saving myself.

I met the man's eyes as we fell together. He was too far away, too far beyond the reach of my extended hand. Newton was right, I just couldn't fall fast enough; I wasn't going to make it. "I'm sorry," I whispered. "I'm so sorry…"

Then, I turned away, lungs, throat, and eyes burning. I lifted my upper body, arcing and pulling out of the fall. I heard screams, the squeal of brakes, a sickening thump, metal crunching. He'd hit the ground or possibly a car… God, what about the people below, driving? I hadn't even thought about them… What if it caused another wreck? _Oh, shit, oh shit…_

But I kept my eyes up, refusing to look down. I didn't want to know how bad it was. I didn't want to see what I'd just allowed to happen. _I just let a man die…_

I felt sick to my stomach. The press would have a field day with this, I was sure… and there were dozens of witnesses who would only be too happy to give their personal commentary… _Oh, God, I just let a man die… I tried, I swear, I tried… what happened? The cables… how did that happen?_

My heart was racing, my breathing shallow. I had to get out, I had to get home. I immediately flew towards my apartment, numb and shaking. With one looping thought running through my head.

_I don't want to be alone right now…_

**xxxxx**

"I don't want to be alone right now…"

I whispered the words aloud. I was perched on the edge of my bed, knees curled to my chest, wings curled around my sides. I felt tiny and helpless and broken in a way that hadn't happened in a long time, not since my friend Gabe and I wrecked our bikes out on Caberne Pike. We'd both completely wiped out, tumbling ass over backwards onto the asphalt and skidding against the concrete. But I'd gotten away with the relatively minor injury of a side and back scraping with matching bruises, while Gabe had broken three ribs, his arm, and cracked his skull, spending nearly a month in the hospital while his bones healed and the swelling went down. It had been my fault then, too – I'd taunted him into riding faster, mocking the awkward way his short legs peddled until he'd had enough and had tried to outdo me…

Back then, of course, my parents had taken me home, hugged me, soothed me, assured me over and over that it hadn't been my fault. Family had come in to visit and spoil me. And my other friends had stopped by regularly, bringing toys and candy. It was the best way to heal, both physically and emotionally – surrounded by people I loved, who I in turn loved back.

I'd taken that community for granted at that age. Who did I have now? I'd shunned any real friends, I avoided most of my family, and I couldn't very well explain why I was so upset to my parents. I'd felt lost and vulnerable before, obviously, but this was different. Worse. Much, much worse. I was never going to get that image out of my mind – the man falling, his eyes beseeching and pleading with me to help. Those metal cables, mysteriously entwined around his ankles…

_I was just trying to help… I don't understand_… It was as if someone had pulled him from me on purpose, but that made no sense… who would do that? Why? And _how_? How was it possible to control two broken bridge cables, especially in such a detailed extent?

"Fuck," I whispered. "Fuck, fuck, _fuck_…" I rocked back and forth on the bed, gripping my shins tightly. I turned my head, resting the side of my head on the top of my knees, staring at the dresser table, unblinking. My cell phone was sitting on top, silent, and I stared at it. What I wouldn't give to have someone to talk to right now… just to listen. It wasn't fair, I'd been so strong all my life, so self-possessed, but I could feel all that slipping away with each replay of the accident in my mind.

I swallowed, uncurling my body and crawling to the head of the bed. I needed rest, desperately… As I lay on my side, folding my knees up close, I did something I'd never bothered to do before, not even the night my wings had grown in. Ironic, particularly for an 'Angel' such as myself…

I prayed.


	10. Chapter 8: Breaking and Entering

**A/N:** Here's chapter eight. I apologize for the delay, this one took more than a month. But it's long -- _extremely_ long. About twice the length of the other chapters, in fact. Plus, I was in Colorado on vacation for awhile, so that put me an entire week behind, anyway. :) I had a great time in CO, though, and I think it was good to get away from the story for a bit.

Anyway, thank you all for your comments and reviews. They are always appreciated, so feel free to voice your opinion. :) I'll stop talking now. On with the story.

* * *

**Chapter Eight: Breaking and Entering**

December 5, 2006  
_Sera_

"Oh, sweet Jehovah, I've got a gray hair. Do you see that?" I plucked out the offending hair, holding it up for Jonathan to see, scowling. "School is driving me into an early grave. You know, I'd nearly forgotten why I decided to forego grad school when I first graduated – but now I remember. Finals week."

"You know, you're not supposed to pull those out," Jonathan said, amused. He scrutinized the hair, then carefully inspected my head. "Now two more will grow in its place."

"Old wives' tale," I said, flinging the strand into the floor beside us. "All I care about is here and now." I grinned in spite of myself. "I'm a little stressed out, can you tell?"

"Just a little." He reached over, flipping my notebook closed. His fingertips brushed against the top of my hand as he did so, and I noticed that he let them linger there longer than necessary. My fist tightened up involuntarily. "Let's take a break. I could use one, anyway."

I nodded, slouching back in the hardback chair and closing my eyes. We were at the library, in a far corner of the fifth level, going over our presentation for the hundredth time. On any normal day – meaning, an average non-finals day – we would be utterly secluded and have the luxury of complete peace and quiet. However, it seemed that all 4500 of SWU's enrollment had gotten the same idea to study amongst the stacks. The small, everyday sounds of paper rustling, people whispering, and books shuffling was driving me mad. I had the insane, inexplicable urge to stand in my chair and tell everyone to shut the hell up.

But then again, I've never really handled stress all that well.

I drummed my fingers on the wooden tabletop, still keeping my eyes closed. I just wanted to rest here and take a quick catnap – just twenty minutes, that's all I needed… "Is it only Tuesday?" I murmured aloud.

"Yep." Jonathan's voice floated somewhere to my right.

"Yeah…" I sighed, letting my eyes flutter open for a moment. It wasn't helping that the inside of the library itself was about as stimulating as an abandoned mine shaft. The overhead lighting was yellow and weak, making it difficult to read (much less stay awake). We'd turned on the individual fluorescent lamps that were built into each library table, so that at least brightened up our workspace, but it didn't do much for the overall atmosphere. I supposed the low lighting was good for the books, but it certainly wasn't doing much for my mentality.

"Let's get some coffee." I felt Jonathan's hand on my shoulder, and I started, snapping my eyes open. I lazily rolled my head back, looking up at him. He smiled in his sly, playboy way, lips pulling into a thin, curved line. His head was tilted down, and his thick hair – which he'd admitted hadn't been cut in nearly two months – fell forward, forming a little curtain around his features. He was such a goodlooking guy, Jonathan… Dylan was probably right. Why shouldn't I take the chance? Why was I always so hesitant?

"Coffee?" I asked, yawning. "Where?"

"Lighthouse Café?" he asked. Before I could answer, he slid his hand down and grabbed my arm, lifting me to my feet. "They have the _best_ macchiato there. It's like an adrenaline shot to the heart. Perk you right up."

"Lighthouse?" I repeated. They did have excellent coffee, but it was all the way down the street, a ten-minute walk, at least. Then, of course, the inevitable twenty-minute wait (at least) in line to place an order. Warren was _supposed_ to be here any minute, and I didn't want him to show up and then us be gone… "Maybe we should wait until Warren gets here. I don't want him to think we stood him up or anything."

Jonathan looked annoyed as he gathered up his stuff. "And you really think he's going to show?" he asked disdainfully. "We've barely seen him in more than a week."

I frowned. He had a point – Warren had been nearly MIA since my last encounter with him, and that had been the Sunday after Thanksgiving. He'd missed every meeting we set up, which was frustrating. He'd made it to class, but didn't so much as talk to either of us while he was there. I'd left him a voicemail yesterday about us meeting up tonight at the library, and to my surprise, he'd left me a return message promising that he would show. But his voice had sounded off. Demoralized. Not that he ever really sounded enthusiastic about anything, but he'd seemed even more downtrodden than usual. I wondered what was wrong – he'd been fine when I'd seen him last, upbeat and polite, even graciously offering the use of his laptop to type up the final paper when the time came. So hard to figure out…

"He'll be here," I said firmly. "He promised me."

Jonathan rolled his eyes and began throwing books and papers into his backpack. We couldn't leave our stuff on the table – too much risk of someone stealing. It always struck me as ironic that people who were supposed to be so intelligent – college students – would be so obtuse as to swipe someone else's material, but that's humanity for you, I suppose.

"He's done," Jonathan scoffed. "He's mentally checked out. Just trying to ride through on our coattails at this point."

I narrowed my eyes, gently pulling my arm free from his grip. "He helped," I said. "He helped me a lot, actually."

Jonathan mumbled something unintelligible under his breath. I didn't bother to ask him to repeat it – I knew I didn't want to hear it. The two of them were just alike, which was something neither would ever be willing to admit. If they'd just cut each other some slack now and then everyone would get along fine.

_Must be the testosterone. If this was a couple of girls, we could solve the problem with a movie night and a gallon of Ben & Jerry's…_

I sighed. I'd learned that most of the time, it was best to ignore the boys' diva fits and just switch the subject. "All right. We'll go to Lighthouse. But let's bring it back here, okay? We'll just have to drink it out in the lobby."

Jonathan pursed his lips. He had a small scar on his lower lip, the result of a four-wheeling accident when he was younger, I'd learned. Most of the time it was nearly indistinguishable, but when he stiffened his mouth it stood out white against the pinkish tint of his lips. "Okay," he relented. Sighing with relief, I gathered my bag and followed him down the steep stairs.

"We'll lose our table, you know," I said, casting a glance back towards where we'd been sitting. A group of students had already converged on it, like vultures attacking fresh roadkill. "Well, _lost_, I should say."

"We'll find another." Jonathan leaped off the last two steps and jetted into the lobby. I struggled to follow him, cursing my poor decision to wear heels. How did New York women do it? I saw scores of fashionistas on the sidewalks in their stiletto boots every day, strolling easily to work or class as if they were wearing tennis shoes. I, on the other hand, hadn't quite gotten the hang of it yet. I wanted to look nice, but not at the expense of abusing my poor, tired feet…

"Hey, slow down," I said, trying not to sound too desperate. Jonathan obliged, shortening his strides to match mine. We ambled through the lobby, curiously checking out the little groups here and there. Seems we weren't the only ones panicking over a final project. "Sorry," I apologized. "It's the shoes. They weren't a good choice. I chose fashion over function today."

"Women and their love of shoes," he mused. "I'll never understand it."

I laughed. "Me either, really," I admitted. "I think it's just something programmed into us since birth." We reached the outer doors and he stepped forward, grasping the thick handle and holding it open for me. I gave him a quick thank-you and stepped outside, met by a sharp, bitter wind. "I know my sisters are the same—"

I stopped my sentence short when I ran straight into something – or someone, rather. "Oh, I'm sorry!" I exclaimed as I awkwardly stumbled back. "I wasn't paying—" I stopped short again, suddenly realizing who I'd run in to. "Warren!"

I watched his expression change – his eyebrows and lips were curled in irritation at having his personal space invaded, but they slowly softened, just a smidgen, when he recognized me. "Hi," he said quietly.

I shot Jonathan a told-you-so look. "I'm glad you made it," I said cheerfully. I kept my tone purposefully light. Warren looked so _different_. Normally he kept a perfected sulky expression on his fine features, but the past week he'd just looked… sad? No, that wasn't quite the right word, but I couldn't place my finger on it. Melancholy, maybe. At any rate, he really just looked like he could use a long, tight hug. "We were beginning to worry about you," I added for effect.

He snorted, shooting a knowing glance at Jonathan. "I bet," he muttered.

"You're late," Jonathan said flatly.

_Here we go…_ I sighed inwardly. "So," I said loudly, drawing their attention back to me. "We were just going to get some coffee before starting up again. Come with us. Then we'll run through what we all have." I smiled earnestly at Warren. I half-expected him to reject my proposal, but instead, he gave Jonathan another suspicious glance, then nodded.

"Okay," was all he said.

Relieved, I brushed a few errant hairs out of my eyes and pointed down the street. "All right, then. Let's go."

**xxxxx**

Cappuccino is God's gift to mankind. He created it specifically with stressed-out college students in mind. I'm convinced of this. And Lighthouse, I must say, makes the best in the city.

I took another long drink of the hot, sweet liquid and swallowed. Jonathan's idea to take a break and get some joe had been an excellent one – I was already beginning to feel re-energized. Though I suppose large quantities of caffeine will do that to a person; it _is_ a drug, after all. Nevertheless, I was feeling better about everything in general. This project, school, life in New York. We were almost done. Just a few more days, then I could really relax.

I idly picked up a newspaper that had been left on our table. There was yet another headline about the Avenging Angel on the first page – ANGEL: FRIEND OR FOE? I took another sip of my coffee and scanned the article. It had been the talk of the town for the past week or so – the supposed do-gooder Angel had allegedly dropped a suicidal man off the Tremonte Bridge last week, and it had caused a mild uproar among New Yorkers. Anti-mutant groups trumpeted it, proclaiming that it was proof that mutants were a hazard to society.

"What are you looking at?" asked Jonathan. I held up the article to him, and he wrinkled his nose.

"I told you," he said. "No such thing as a 'good' mutant."

I clenched my jaw a little. I didn't know what to think – there were no true witnesses, only people who had seen part of the goings-on and made assumptions. I just couldn't fathom that someone who risked their life to help others so much would purposely send a man to his death. "I think it was an accident," I said. "It just doesn't make sense."

"What are you talking about? People who were there said—"

"And all of those people admitted that they didn't actually see the whole thing," I interrupted him. "Apparently, one of the cables broke and they were ducking for cover when the actual drop occurred. That's what the _Times_ said." I shrugged. "I mean, the man was suicidal, anyway. He could have just wrestled from his grip and fallen on purpose. It makes sense."

"A convenient excuse," Jonathan said, blowing into his cup to cool down his drink.

I restrained a groan. Jonathan was just so _stubborn_. "Well, I guess no one really knows except the Angel," I said crisply. "And he's not around to give his side of the story, so I'm going with my gut."

"Sera, you're always so trusting. This is _New York_," Jonathan said. "Everyone has an agenda, even humans. So it's silly to—"

"Can we get started?" Warren suddenly spoke up. Jonathan and I turned to him, surprised at his outburst. He looked irritated at the direction of the conversation. "I can't stay very long."

"Sure," I said. "Sorry, I get off on tangents sometimes." I gave him a sheepish smile.

His face slackened a bit. "It's okay," he mumbled, slouching back down. I nodded, taking the reins again.

"Okay, anyway," I announced, curling my hands around the styrofoam cup for warmth. "Status check. What all is left to do?" I paused. "Well, the final write-up, that report, but that shouldn't take too long."

"Well, we've all already got our speeches written, don't we?" Jonathan said. "I do, I know you do, Sera…" He shot a sidelong glance to Warren.

"Mine's ready," Warren said. "I have my notes."

Jonathan's brow furrowed. "Notes?" he repeated. "All you have is notes?"

"That's all I need." Warren was unperturbed, leaning back in his chair and staring out the window. He'd ordered a double shot of espresso, but hadn't even taken a sip yet. He seemed distracted today, even more so than usual. I kept trying to catch his eye, hoping to engage him, but he'd remained in something of a zoned-out state. He wasn't ignoring me on purpose, I thought, but rather just _really_ distracted with something on his mind. "That's what _real_ orators do," he added, just as a dig at Jonathan's expense, I was sure.

Jonathan bristled. "Real orators? You go in unprepared and hope that your notes will get you by? God, Warren, I don't know how you expect to get through college with that kind of attitude."

I suppressed another groan. _That_ was totally unnecessary – because Warren had a point, in public speaking classes we'd been taught to go by notes alone and not come with a word-for-word speech to recite. I'd just written mine out because I knew for certain that if I didn't, I'd forget half of it. I'd learned that from personal experience – I was by far the most scatterbrained teacher at George Washington High; always losing my train of thought mid-lecture. It had been a mistake to attempt to be a teacher, especially since my public speaking skills were decidedly lacking.

"That's an ironic statement, coming from someone who's been working on a four-year degree for six-and-a-half years," Warren replied calmly. "And I suppose you never took a communications or public speaking course in that time, because if you had, you'd know that you're never supposed to read to your audience. Unless, of course, you're the President of the United States giving the State of the Union Address," he added in sarcastically. "And last time I checked, you weren't."

I felt my mouth drop, and I had to hold back a snort. I had to give credit where it was due – a pretty good comeback, I thought. I glanced over at Jonathan, biting my lip to keep from laughing. I couldn't help it, and I fervently hoped that he hadn't noticed. Luckily, his attention was riveted towards Warren. Jaw rigid, eyes smoldering. I took a sip of my cappuccino, staring down into the cup in an effort to regain my composure.

"What the fuck is your problem, man?" Jonathan snapped. "Why do you always have to act like that?"

_Oh, Lord, here we go… I might just get to witness a fist fight today…_

I quickly swallowed, preparing once again to act as referee. Dealing with these two one-on-one was fine – no problem. Jonathan was always a perfect gentleman with me, and I'd even warmed up to Warren solo. But in a group setting, they were tiresome. "Jonathan—" I began.

"No!" he interrupted me, scowling at Warren. "I want this asshole here to answer the question. All semester long, he's treated us like shit, acting like he's so high and mighty and wise. When in reality, it couldn't be further from the truth."

I buried my face in my hands, all trace of the earlier laughter gone. I was so _tired_ of this… "That's enough," I said quietly. "Let's just—"

"Sera," Warren suddenly said, his voice still that eerie, level calm. "Why don't you go grab us another round?"

I looked over at him, surprised. Another round? My cup was nearly gone, but he still hadn't touched the espresso. "What?" I asked. I fidgeted under the table, feeling terribly uncomfortable. Amazing how quickly the mood had shifted – the tension in the air was palpable. I looked over at Warren, curious, and he met my eyes with that cool, collected gaze. And then I understood – he didn't want more coffee, he just didn't want me there while he and Jonathan 'settled their differences'.

Well, no argument here. "Oh," I said quickly. "Um, well, I don't have any more money, but I'll get you another espresso if you want…" I shot another quick look at Jonathan, who remained stonefaced.

"Don't worry about it. I've got it." He pulled out his wallet and tugged a ten from the folds, sliding it across the table to me. "That cappuccino's pretty good, right?" he asked, giving me a pointed look. I nodded silently. "Get another for yourself. And will you get me a cup as well?"

"Sure," I said nervously, darting my eyes between the two. "What size?"

"The biggest they have." He didn't look at me as he spoke this time, instead staring across the small wooden table at Jonathan. I could practically feel the sparks in the air.

"Okay." I wasted no time in jumping up from the table. "I'll, um, be back in a few minutes, then…" I hastily grabbed my purse, slinging it over my shoulder. Clutching the ten in my hand, I gave both of them a curt nod and headed into the other room to get in line.

"Take your time," Warren said dryly to my back. I didn't acknowledge his comment, but I silently agreed.

_Oh, I plan to… believe me, I plan to…_

**xxxxx**

Being a popular place for college students to crash, Lighthouse was crowded regardless of the time of day. Waiting twenty minutes in line to get your order was pretty much standard. Normally, I found this an annoyance, but today, it was an advantage, since I was in no rush to return. I wasn't going back to that table until Warren and Jonathan finished their 'discussion', once and for all.

I leaned against the counter, idly folding and unfolding the ten dollar bill Warren had given me, making fresh creases in little parallel lines along the length of it. It seemed strange to me, to just be able to pull money from your wallet and hand it to someone without a second thought. Anytime _I_ bought something, I had to quickly count what I had, estimate the cost, decide whether or not it was worth the expenditure… I sighed. I knew that money didn't equal happiness, but it sure seemed to make some things a lot easier.

"Can I help you?" I turned to face the barista's perky, effervescent smile. She had short blond hair cut into a perfect bob, and I personally thought she was way too cheerful for such a dreary, cold December afternoon.

"Um, two French Vanilla cappuccinos, please," I said. I was just assuming Warren wanted the French Vanilla flavor, I really wasn't sure since he hadn't specified. Although truthfully, I doubted he wanted the coffee at all. "Large, for both," I added as an afterthought.

She typed into the register, her long nails clicking against the buttons. "That'll be eight-forty-two," she said. I handed her the ten and watched as she counted out the change. "It'll be just a few minutes."

I smiled ruefully. "Oh, take your time," I said, repeating Warren's request. With that, I turned around again, watching the rest of the restaurant. And it was just luck that I turned when I did – just in time to see Jonathan jetting towards the door, practically shoving people out of his way in the process. I felt my eyes widen, and I scrambled to stand up straight.

"Jonathan!" I called out, taking a few halting steps in his direction, deftly maneuvering around the empty wooden chairs, tables, and customers. What was he doing? Leaving? "Hey, Jonathan!"

He stopped, turning to face me. His face was bright red and livid, and for a moment I was reminded of my year-old nephew whenever he got angry – he'd get the same flushed, contorted expression just before he began a spectacular crying fit. I took a few more hesitant steps towards him, wondering what in the world was going on. "Where are you going?" I asked uneasily.

"I'm leaving," he seethed. "Since you and Warren seem to get along so well, then _you_ deal with him." A jab at me, I was sure, for all the times I'd defended Warren, and yet had not defended _him_ earlier when Warren had made the scathing four-year degree comment.

"What? What happened?" I reached out to grab his arm, hoping to placate him. I was somewhat conscious of the other patrons staring at us, but I ignored their curious gazes. He shrugged me off, adjusting his jacket cuff.

"I'm not working with him anymore," he said flatly. "I'm sorry, Sera, but I can't deal with it. I just can't. I've done my part. I'm finished."

My jaw dropped. Was this the same guy who was just accusing Warren of abandoning us just a few hours ago? "What?" I said incredulously. "We still have to finish up that paper, and—"

He threw his arms up, exasperated. "I know. And I'm sorry, but I just can't do it. Not with him. I just— I—I just can't." That was a side of Jonathan I hadn't yet seen – he was so angry he was _stuttering_. It was unsettling to witness. "You two can finish it up."

However, now it was _my_ turn to get angry. Unsettling or not, we still had business to finish. "You're just walking away?" I said hotly. "Just like that?"

His face softened a bit, and he shrugged, somewhat apologetically. "I'm sorry… I'm _really_ sorry, I really am. But… he's gone too far, Sera. If I have to spend five more minutes with him, I swear to God I'll punch him in the face. Or worse. So it's best if I just cut out now before it gets ugly."

_Before it gets ugly? So what I just saw in there **wasn't** ugly? _

I lowered my head and rubbed my temples. We didn't have time for these types of shenanigans… it was only two more days, could he not just suck it up for another forty-eight hours? I lifted my chin up again, preparing to say exactly that, but after taking another good, solid look at his expression, I realized it was a lost cause. He was leaving, whether I liked it or not.

And hey, maybe it wasn't a bad idea to keep them separated, anyway. It would probably be a little less taxing on me.

"Fine," I said, sighing heavily. "How about this – I'll finish up with him right now, and then you and I will meet tomorrow and finish up the paper. Alone."

"Okay," he said. "But I have to work tomorrow night, so it would have to be during the day sometime…"

I closed my eyes, silently fuming when I realized what was going to have to happen. Of course. "Well, I have a final in the morning and then I have to work during the day, and then I have another late final," I said shortly. "So that's not going to work."

"Oh…" he paused. "Well, maybe we could meet early in the morning, before your final, and—"

I cut him off with a wave of my hand. I didn't want to deal with this anymore. "Just nevermind. We'll finish it up, it's no big deal."

"Sera—"

"I said don't worry about it! There's not time. I just want it to be done. I'm gonna go right now and Warren and I will get it done. I'll see you Thursday." With that, I turned sharply on my heel and stalked off before my anger could build any further. I heard Jonathan's sputtered protests behind me, but I didn't bother to acknowledge them. In fact, I was so set on leaving the room that I'd forgotten about the drinks I'd ordered until I heard the barista yelling at me.

"Miss! Miss! Your cappuccinos!" I halted, feeling my face flush. I quickly made my way to the counter and picked up the drinks, smiling thinly at the blonde.

"Thanks," I murmured. With a cup in each hand, I headed towards the back room again, only allowing one small, inconspicuous glance towards the front of the café. Jonathan was nowhere to be seen; apparently he'd gotten the hint and left. I wasn't sure why I felt so relieved – after all, he was basically getting away with doing no more work – but I felt as if a weight had been lifted from my shoulders, nonetheless.

"I swear," I muttered. "It'll be a miracle if I make it through this week."

**xxxxx**

"You've been very quiet today."

Warren turned his head and raised one eyebrow, studying the steaming cups I set in front of him. When I'd approached the table, he'd been staring out the window, deep in thought, looking remarkably calm for someone who'd just engaged in verbal fisticuffs with another man. I eased into the seat across the table, studying him curiously. Best not to start in with the burning question I had just yet. I'd talk him up a bit first, see what was running through his mind.

"I'm always quiet," he said.

I shrugged casually. "Yeah. But this is a different quiet." I leaned back in my chair, following his gaze out the slightly steamed windows. There was a row of old-style Victorian houses across the street that had been split up and adjusted to rent out to college students. One of the houses had a huge homemade Chi Omega flag hanging from the windowsill, and it flapped wildly in the wind, flowing and snapping with each fierce gust.

"Hmph." Warren slowly inched his hand across the table, reaching for the fresh cappuccino. His fingers gracefully curled around the cup one at a time, reminding me of the slow, deliberate motions of a spider's crawling legs. Mesmerizing.

When he said nothing more, I tried again. "How are you doing? Everything okay?"

Warren looked at me sharply, his eyes narrowing, eyebrows furrowing until the formed a line of V-shaped wrinkles in his forehead. It was a look of true bewilderment – I'd seen the exact expression on my older brother the day I'd told my family I was moving to New York. I'm sure he was thinking the same thing, as well: _'What? What did you just say?'_ It was a little sad, I thought, that he seemed to be so secluded from society that a simple query about his well-being would confuse him.

He shifted a little in his chair, shoulders rolling and stretching. "I'm fine," he said, though I detected unease in his voice.

"Oh?" I rested one elbow on the table, angling towards him ever-so-slightly. "You seem… I don't know, upset."

"Upset?" he repeated. "I'm fine."

I sighed. Typical male – always so unwilling to share any shred of emotion or issue. Nick and I had gone round and round like this in the years we dated on a regular basis – me pressing for information when he seemed down about something, him drawing back and insisting that he was perfectly okay. We'd had many of the 'I'm fine/Are you sure?' conversations in our day. I'd been convinced at the time that the secrecy was just a personality flaw of his, but being around other men the past few years had shown me that it was actually a more common trait than I'd imagined.

"Well," I said after an awkward moment. "Okay. But, you know, sometimes it helps to talk about things. And I know you don't know me very well, but if I can help you out with anything, then just let me know." I folded my hands on the table, a little embarrassed at the earnest offer I'd just laid out there for him. Who was I to act as Warren's confidante? It wasn't as if we were great friends… or even friends at all, really.

He quickly looked down at the table, and I caught the slightest hint of a flush across his cheeks. Embarrassment? Gratitude? I couldn't tell. "Oh," he mumbled after a moment. "Thanks, I guess." Gratitude, then, perhaps. I smiled, then promptly frowned at his next statement. "But I'm fine."

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. Well, I'd tried, anyway, and that was what counted, right? I relaxed in my seat, deciding to change the subject to something a little less intrusive. "So, Warren," I said, speaking a little louder. "What did you say to him?"

His brows scrunched together again as he tried to follow my line of thought. "Say what to who?"

I snorted. Short attention span, or simply being his usual evasive self? "Jonathan. You know, the other guy in our group. The one you always fight with. And the one who just ran out of here fifteen minutes ago. Sound familiar?" I couldn't keep the sarcasm from my voice.

"Jonathan," he repeated, his lips curling into a smirk. He seemed quite pleased with his handiwork, and I felt a trace of annoyance. This was a joke to him?

"Yes, Jonathan. What did you say?" I asked again, this time with a little more emphasis.

"Nothing he didn't already know," he replied airily, obviously grateful not to be the center of my scrutiny any longer. I narrowed my eyes at his vague remark. He finally took a drink of the cappuccino and nodded appreciatively, holding up the cup. "You're right. This _is_ good."

"Look," I said after a long moment. "I realize that it's none of my business, but I'm asking anyway. I just want to know why one of my team members just stormed off in a hissy fit and swore he wasn't coming back until the final presentation on Thursday. That's not good. You know why? Because now _we_ have to do the work." I stared at face, hard. Some of the sympathy I'd felt for him earlier was ebbing away. "And for the record, you _are_ helping me write this."

He actually laughed, the first true smile I'd seen from him all day. "I know," he said simply.

Why was he so calm? His unruffled demeanor was beginning to aggravate me. Stressed-Out Sera was about to make another appearance. "Well, when are we going to do this?" I asked, not bothering to hide my annoyance. "It's not like we have a lot of time left. Shouldn't we get started?"

"I, well…" he trailed off, a bit flustered. "I can't stay long. Actually, I need to leave here in a minute. Tomorrow?"

Leaving already? Was I the _only_ one with any sense of responsibility? "Tomorrow?" I grabbed my cup and took another long drink, willing myself to calm down. Perhaps two cappuccinos chock-full of caffeine was not a wise idea, after all. "The night before it's due? Oh, that's perfect."

"Well, what other time do we have?" he asked. "If you ask me it doesn't look like you have much of an option. That is…" he gave me a sardonic smile. "…if you still want my help."

I set my cup down on the table with a loud clack. Okay. If he was going to act like that, then so would I. "Fine," I said. "But we're using _your_ computer. At _your_ apartment."

He blinked. "What?" Then shook his head. "No."

"What do you mean, 'no'?" I said.

"I mean no."

"Warren…" I sighed. "I know I'm being a little demanding right now, but we're down to the wire and the options are limited. I won't be there long. In fact, you'll hardly even know I was there."

"No."

"Why not?" I rested both elbows on the table an planted my face in cupped hands. I gave him my best glare, just for effect.

He squirmed a little, breaking eye contact and staring out the window. "I—I don't like being a host. Can't we meet somewhere else?"

A host? It wasn't like I was asking him to put on a dinner party. I slapped one hand down on the table, startling him. "Look, I have a test tomorrow morning, then I have to work, and then I have another test, late. The library closes at ten." I sat back and folded my arms stubbornly. "So what do you propose? That we meet _here_? No. I don't have a computer, you do. _And_ you even said we could use it, a few weeks ago when we were talking about getting this thing done. So take it or leave it – otherwise, I'll just write it myself, get my friend to type it, and then tell the professor that you and Jonathan both flaked out."

He stared at me, looking a little shocked. I was a little shocked, myself. I'd always considered myself to be a pretty headstrong person, but I was not the type to hand out ultimatums. Well, not under normal circumstances, anyway, and there was certainly nothing normal about _this_ situation.

"Okay," he said after a few long minutes of excruciating silence. I noticed his knuckles tightened a little around his cup, the skin paling with the effort. He appeared to be uncomfortable with the idea; no surprise there. I wasn't really that keen on it, myself. Meeting with Warren alone on neutral ground was fine, but in his own apartment? People just seemed _different_ when they were in their own environments.

"Okay. Good." My voice belied a confidence that I didn't actually possess. Had I really just commanded Warren Worthington the third to open up his home to me? And did he really just _agree_? I reached into my bag, pulling out a pen and piece of paper. "Um, I need your address."

He studied the black Bic and ripped-out sheet from my mini notepad for a second, as if he couldn't believe he'd just agreed to it, either. I watched, rapt, as he scribbled down directions in his thin, wiry handwriting. He looked up when he was finished. "Um… Worthington Tower, down on Rose," he said. "You come in the lobby, go to the desk. Tell them you're there to see me. They'll buzz me, then let you in. I'm in the top apartment."

Good grief, it sounded like security at Fort Knox. "Okay," I said, grabbing the little sheet of paper and folding it into a tiny square. I suddenly felt nervous, like I was going too far. Wasn't I the one who earlier had promised not to overstep Warren's boundaries?

_But he agreed… if he really had such a problem with it, then he wouldn't have, right?_

"Okay…" He sat back in his chair, folding his arms tightly across his chest, his discomfort clearly showing. "Um, what time will you be there?"

"I don't know, exactly. Depends on when my final gets out," I said, "and it doesn't start until eight-thirty."

He blinked. "Can you be more specific?"

Was he not listening? "I don't know when I'll get done," I repeated. "I'll just call you."

"Why don't you just plan to come over at… ten?" he asked. "Can you make that?"

"Ten? Why?" I held my arms up, frustrated. "Can't I just call when I get out of the test?"

"I like to plan," he said defensively. "I need to know when you'll be there so I can make sure… so I can make sure I'm ready."

I exhaled loudly and threw my arms down. "All right, fine. Ten."

One side of his lip curved into a smirk, a look of satisfaction that he'd gotten his way. A small victory, I guess, considering I'd forced him to play 'host'. Men. I will never, _ever_ understand them.

"Was that so hard?" he asked. With that patronizing statement, he took another long drink of cappuccino and stood up in one smooth motion. "And really, I do have to go. But I'll see you tomorrow, Sera." The smirk flattened into a thin line. I couldn't tell if he was trying to smile or holding back a grimace. I closed my eyes and just nodded, suddenly exhausted. "_At ten_," he added, just before walking away from the table.

God help me.

**xxxxx**

My experience with apartments thus far in life had been those of the lower middle class/college sort. Simple buildings and floor plans, with a few amenities, like a rectangular pool or small exercise room. Nowadays, on my budget, it was a tiny studio, barely bigger than most people's car garages. At WVU, I'd lived in a midsize two bedroom/one bath with a roommate for my last two years. Nick and I had looked at renting one of the 'luxury' 2,000-square feet apartments in town before ultimately moving into a quaint little house on the south side. I'd thought they were pretty extravagant at the time, with inlayed brick, corner fireplaces, and crystal chandeliers hanging over the dining area.

But, as it turns out, I had a severely limited definition of the word 'luxury'. The Racquet Club had been 'nice'. Worthington Tower was truly _luxurious_, in every sense of the word, from its soft, warm carpeting, the intricate paintings decorating the hallway, the gilded accents in the lobby, to the decked-out doorman who looked like he would be right at home as one of the royal guards in England.

It was intimidating, to say the least. I'd done as Warren requested, checking in with the security guard in the lobby. I'd been buzzed in, taken the express elevator to the top floor – to the penthouse, which for some reason brought all sorts of unseemly connotations into my head – and then nervously walked through the short corridor to knock on Warren's door. There was a little gold-plated knocker in the center above the peephole, but nothing else adorned the thick oak. No number, no name, nothing. I supposed, though, that there wasn't really a need for it. _Everyone_ knew who lived here.

He answered the door after my second knock, sliding it open with some hesitance. Wearing a thick black GAP sweatshirt, jeans, and beat-up Nikes, he stood and regarded me for a moment before speaking. His blond hair was ruffled in an adorable way, with curls askew, as if he'd just run his hands through it. "Hi," he said.

I fidgeted. "Hi."

He nodded, pursing his thick lips. "Right on time. Come in." I watched as he stepped back and turned, walking in. With some trepidation, I followed.

"Wow," I said as I sidled through the door, still feeling edgy – how ridiculous, I was a _grown woman_. "Your apartment is, um, gorgeous." Understatement of the year. I'd known Warren would live in a nice place, but the penthouse at Worthington Tower far exceeded my expectations. It was huge, for one, that much I could see without going another step further. Sheesh, his foyer alone was bigger than my entire apartment. I cast a quick glance around at the décor – dark, rich colors, like burgundy and gold, seemed to be the accent colors of choice. Large framed canvas paintings were hung along the hallway, and the various knick-knacks and decorative items here and there gave the place a chic, urban feel. It certainly didn't look like the apartment of your standard 18-year-old…

Warren glanced back at me, a rueful smile on his lips. He seemed almost embarrassed, as if the lavishness of the apartment was a liability. "My mother decorated it," he said. "And when I moved in, I just kept it that way."

"It's nice," I said, nodding as I followed him to the den. "Very nice…"

"Yeah… she's got good taste." Warren stopped by the couch, glancing around uncertainly. "Um, you want something to drink?"

"Just water is fine." I sat down gingerly on the couch. It was soft, plush leather, and my body practically melted into it. He ambled into the kitchen, and I crossed my legs primly, feeling very out of place in my old jeans and nondescript knit sweater. Uncouth, perhaps, in the elegant atmosphere in the apartment. The fact that Warren had money – a _lot_ of money – had never seemed like that big of a deal to me, but witnessing the glory of it in person changed my perspective. Although he'd always been standoffish and even rude in the beginning, I'd never thought of Warren as particularly snobby or superior. However, being surrounded by such opulence was enough to instill a small inferiority complex in me. Eighteen-year-old Warren Worthington the third could have anything his little heart desired. _Anything_. Twenty-seven-year-old Sera Slone would be lucky to afford the knee-high Candies she saw in Macy's the week before.

I sighed, tucking my hair behind my ears. There was a thick, hardback book on his coffee table, so I reached out and checked out the cover, curious. _A Short History of the Movies._ Interesting. I flipped open the cover, pursing my lips as I scanned through the table of contents.

"Here you go." I jumped nearly a foot in the air when Warren returned on stealthy, silent feet. My hand automatically slammed the book closed, as if I'd been caught doing something illegal. I jerked my head around to look at him, giving him a shamefaced grin. In return, he raised one thick blonde eyebrow, though I caught the barest hint of an amused smile before he sat down next to me.

"Thanks," I said, accepting the tall glass. I quickly took a drink, the icy water sliding down my throat. I set the glass on a thick ceramic coaster and turned to Warren, beckoning to the book. "So… you like movies?"

He clasped his hands together, tucking them between his knees, and leaned forward to check out the book cover. It was a sweetly childlike pose, and I felt my lips curve up, just watching his body language. He was still distant, true, but not so closed-off like he'd once been. The stiffness in his posture was gone, replaced by a somewhat relaxed slouch. Progress, yes. If only I could have gotten Jonathan to see that.

"Yeah," he said after a moment. "I watch a lot of movies. I've got a pretty big DVD collection."

"What's your favorite?" I asked. "Any in particular?"

He reached up to scratch his nose, and his eyes squinted in deep thought. "Pretty much anything by Scorsese. _Raging Bull, Taxi Driver, Goodfellas._ Um, and Spielberg's stuff, some of the time. _Raiders of the Lost Ark, Jaws, Schindler's list,_ yes. _E.T., Hook, The Terminal_, no." He paused. "Yeah, I really can't just pick one… Oh, and of course, there's also _Pulp Fiction_."

"Of course," I repeated dryly. "That's like, the favorite of every guy I know. What is it about that movie that you all like so much?"

"What?" he said defensively. "I dunno, it's just a good film. Drugs, sex, and violence. It's over the top, but entertaining."

I shrugged. "I suppose. Maybe it's just not my style."

"Not your style?" Suddenly his eyes lit up in an expression I'd never before seen – mischief. "You're probably one of those rom-com girls, aren't you? A little dose of Luke Wilson and you're good to go, I bet. Or," he added, "maybe Disney cartoons are more 'your style'? Shrek, Toy Story?"

I felt my face flush. "There is nothing wrong with Luke Wilson," I said haughtily. "He plays the sweet average man very well." I grinned in spite of myself. "And for the record, yes, I like Disney cartoons. Aladdin's my favorite."

"Aladdin, huh?" he asked, amused. "Why?"

"I don't know. Robin Williams is great in it. And Aladdin's kind of cute, don't you think, for a cartoon?" I grinned at Warren's incredulous expression. I guess he'd never had an animated crush. "Plus, he could fly around on that magic carpet. Very cool."

One side of his mouth twitched, and his eyes squinted together in a mysterious smile. "Yeah, I guess so," he agreed. "Very cool…"

I flipped the book closed and set it back on the table. It was already late, and as much as I appreciated that Warren was showing a little personality, I didn't want to waste his time or overstay my welcome. "Okay, I'm not trying to be rude, but I don't want to waste your time…" I rested my hands in my lap. He looked a little surprised at that statement. "So should we finish this up?"

"You're not wasting my time," he said, his voice whisper-quiet. I blinked. What? "But yeah, it's getting late. I'll go get the laptop." He stood up, straightening the front of his shirt. He gave me a quick, shy nod and jetted from the room.

"Okay, cool," I called after him. I leaned back into the couch, continuing to survey the room. The kitchen was just on the opposite side of the room, and I could see several other doorways just beyond it in a small hallway, but I couldn't tell what sort of rooms they led to. There was a set of wrought-iron spiral stairs in another corner of the den, and I wondered just how huge the penthouse really was – who had _stairs_ in their apartment? Did that lead to the master suite? Probably. I was curious to see the rest of the place, but I didn't want to ask for a tour fear of coming across as nosy or impolite. Warren was a man of boundaries, as I'd said, and I certainly didn't want to overstep them.

"Got it," he said, startling me back into reality. I watched as he strolled back in the room, casually carrying his computer in one hand as if it weighed nothing. He pushed the power button, and I could hear the fan and disc drive whirring as the machine started up. He sat down next to me and placed the laptop on the table, equally between us. "Let's get this thing finished up."

**xxxxx**

Though I'd initially balked at going through with it, coming to Warren's apartment was actually a good idea. It was wondrously quiet, for one – a relief to me, as it meant no infuriating background noise, like chatter or rustling papers. Despite his weak declaration that he hated playing host, he was surprisingly gracious, keeping me satiated with refills and even bringing out some Thai Lettuce Wrap appetizers he'd made earlier in the evening. He liked to cook, he'd said, and he'd made too much. They were delicious – not in a grossly oversaturated way, like how juicy cheeseburgers could be delicious, but in a light, healthy way that made me want to reach for more without feeling guilty. So Warren Worthington was a closet chef. Who knew?

"What's another word for 'good'?" he asked suddenly, his fingers stopping on top of the keys. "That doesn't sound… professional enough."

"What's the context?"

"For the conclusion, to basically say that we feel Genetic Preimplantation Diagnosis is a good idea." He scowled a little, his pretty face scrunching up. "I _really_ hate that we're arguing for this."

"As do I." I leaned back in the cushions, idly looking over at Warren. Well, he'd been nothing but helpful, no doubt about that. Jonathan would kill me for saying so, but in some ways, Warren was easier to work with. Because when he set his mind to something, he motored towards the goal full-force, concentration unbroken. It was almost midnight, nearly two hours after we'd begun, but we were almost done with a ten-page report, by taking turns writing it out on the laptop and alternately helping one another. Not too shabby.

"Hmmm," I continued, still watching his hunkered-over frame. He had odd posture. I'd never noticed it when he stood, but sitting like that made it look as though he had a sort of hump on his back. "Wise? No. What about 'shrewd' or 'prudent'?"

"Prudent works." He leaned over and his fingers flew over the keys, quickly typing. "How's this for an ending: 'To conclude, in this day and age, foregoing the opportunity to prevent crippling or life-threatening diseases in our youth is akin to taking a gamble with their health. Preimplantation Genetic Diagnosis is not only a solution, but a prudent decision for future parents.'"

I waved my hand haphazardly in the air. "Sounds great," I said breezily. "Save it, print it, and let's hand it in." I rubbed my eyes, yawning. I was definitely beginning to feel the effects of my eighteen-hour day. "So tired," I murmured softly, not intending for him to hear.

"You look it." He glanced over, his hands still resting on the keyboard. "Long day?"

"Very." I stood up and stretched my arms toward the ceiling, willing my muscles to loosen up. "I plan to take a nice, long break when this is ov—" I was cut off by the shrill, insistent ring of my phone. Frowning, I dashed over to my purse, which I'd set down on his leather armchair. Fishing through my purse, I grabbed it and put it to my ear without checking the name of the caller. "Hello?"

"Sera!" I chuckled at the enthusiastic voice. Randi, nearly drowned out by laughter and music in the background, sounding like she was having the time of her life. Which, with her perspective, she probably was. The girl never missed an opportunity to party. "Omigod, Sera, you _have_ to get down here to Club 141 right now."

"What? Why?" I turned halfway to Warren, who looked away from the screen. He smiled when I gave him a helpless shrug, and motioned for me to leave the room if I wanted, for privacy. I nodded, shuffling towards the kitchen. "Oh, it doesn't matter. Don't tell me how much fun you're having, because I can't come."

"WHY NOT!" Randi protested, as if I'd just personally insulted her. "Sera, they have the most _amazing_ band here, and there's _tons_ of cute guys, and they're handing out free shots, and—"

"It sounds wonderful," I cut in, smiling in spite of myself. "But I've got my final presentation tomorrow, and I'm still working on it right now."

"Where _are_ you? Dylan said he stopped by your place and you weren't home!"

"I'm…" I paused, feeling a slight blush steal across my cheeks. Randi and Dylan knew of my change of opinion towards Warren, but not that I had basically invited myself into his home. "I'm at Warren's apartment, writing the report."

It was a good thing I'd left the room, because if Warren had heard her reaction – and believe me, he _would_ have, at the decibel level she was displaying – I'd have been royally embarrassed. "WARREN? WARREN FUCKING WORTHINGTON? You're alone with him in his apartment? SERA SLONE!" I cringed, my fingers fumbling with the volume buttons on the side of the phone. When I'd managed to turn her down to a more manageable listening level, I held the phone back up to my ear. She was still going. "—and has he put any moves on you yet? How's he dressed? Is he playing music? Did he give you a tour? Did you see his bedroom? Did you—"

"Randi, shut up," I hissed, hunching over, as if I could hide that way. I didn't understand why she always equated coming to someone else's house alone with sex. It was as if she'd never heard of platonic friendship, or even just group cooperation. "No, for the last time, _no_. There is nothing scandalous happening here, despite what your twisted little mind likes to imagine. We're _working_!"

"Well, your loss," she sniffed. "Is his place gorgeous? It is, isn't it? God, Sera, I am so jealous. Well, are you at least getting in good with him like I said you should? Are you going to introduce me? I think that—"

"Randi," I repeated patiently. "Neither the time nor place. All right? I'll call you tomorrow when I'm done, and you can tell me all about this amazing band and the hot guys and the shots. But seriously, I have to go. I wish I could come, but I'm stuck. This has got to get done tonight."

Randi grumbled, but relented. "Okay. But—" she stopped, and I heard loud, screaming laughter in the background, along with other voices and her familiar shriek. Someone must have antagonized her in some way. "Sorry, sorry! Okay, Dylan says hi, and he wishes you were here."

"Ditto," I replied wistfully. "Have fun, and be careful, okay?"

"Okay. Love you, Sera! Don't work that pretty little head of yours too hard! Or _his_, for that matter!" She giggled loudly at her blatant double entendre, and before I had the chance to respond, the line went dead.

_It's a good thing I love you, Randi Cox. Because otherwise, I'd kill you._

"Right," I muttered. What a handful. Though she seemed quite insistent about meeting the youngest Worthington, I could only laugh at the thought of them hanging out together. She would be dazed by his angelic good looks and insurmountable wealth, of course, but I had no doubt that he would find her to be completely insufferable. If there was one thing I'd learned that Warren respected, it was intelligence, followed by maturity. Neither of which poor Randi possessed, sadly.

When I returned to the den, Warren was sitting on the couch, grinning, holding several sheets of paper in his hand. I furrowed my brow, walking over to him. "What's this?"

"Our GPD report, all typed and ready to go." He carefully stacked the sheets and handed them to me with a slight dramatic flair.

"Printed, already? That was quick…" I accepted the report, flipping through it. Three months of hard work, all bound up onto ten 8½ x 11 pieces of paper. It didn't seem fair, really. All those hours, all that tension and drama, whittled down to less than three thousand words.

"Wireless printer," he said. "It's in my office. I just printed and ran and picked it up while you were on the phone."

"Oooh, gotcha." Of course. Leave it to Warren to have nothing but the best technology had to offer. Office? Wireless printers? What normal eighteen-year-old had that? What normal eighteen-year-old _needed_ that? I held up the paper. "So this is it, huh? We're done?"

"We're done." He stood up and stretched a little himself, grimacing slightly as he arched his back. His posture appeared normal again… odd. Must have just been the angle that he was sitting earlier.

"Stiff back?" I asked.

"You could say that." He paused. "I just need to… move around. I've been here all day, haven't even been outside. Just studying and getting other stuff done."

"I know the feeling," I murmured. I flipped my wrist and glanced at my watch. Almost twelve-thirty; if I left now, I'd be home by one. Our presentation was at ten tomorrow, which wasn't too terribly early, but I was exhausted and would have to set my alarm nonetheless. "Well, if we're done, can you hold onto everything? If you don't mind…"

"Sure." I pulled out a folder and handed it to him, watching as he slid the report inside. "Here's the disc, too" he said, showing me a CD jewel case. "Just in case something happens to the print-out."

"Great, thanks." I zipped up my bag. "Well, Warren… I'm not trying to be rude, but I'm heading out. Thanks for helping."

"Did I have a choice?" He attempted to keep a straight face, but I could see the slight lines of laughter creeping around his eyes and mouth. "You're welcome. And…" he paused for a moment. "Sorry." I knew instantly what he was talking about, and I nodded. "Some people just… just don't get along. End of story." He shrugged. "And I suppose your friend Jonathan and I fall into that category."

I shrugged it off uncomfortably, hitching the straps of my bag a little tighter. "Yeah, I guess. But it's over now, right? And after tomorrow you'll never have to see him again. Maybe. Unless you have another class with him, I suppose." I laughed softly, taking a few ambling steps into the middle of the room. Wait, where was the door to leave? How pathetic that I was practically getting lost in his apartment…

"A shame," he remarked dryly. "Do you need me to show you out?"

I nodded, embarrassed. "But for the record, Warren…" I said, following him out of the room, "are you ever going to tell me what you said to him yesterday to set him off?"

Warren simply smiled, then turned and lightly placed a hand on my shoulder, steering me towards the door. "No."

**xxxxx**

I was in the elevator, nearly halfway down, when I realized I couldn't find my phone.

I tore through my backpack, tossing it on the floor and pulling out everything to look. I rummaged through my purse. Nothing. Pursing my lips, I realized that I must have left the phone in his apartment. I'd had it out when Randi called… walked into the kitchen… what had I done with it then? I must have set it down, on his marble kitchen counter or maybe in the den somewhere. I grunted in irritation – I was tired, a little grumpy, and just ready to get home. I considered leaving it; asking Warren tomorrow to bring it to me later, but then I remembered that after tomorrow, there was a good chance I might not see him again for a long time, what with Christmas break looming and his general secluded nature. Besides, the cell was the only means of communication I had at home – with no landline phone or computer with internet connection, I relied on it daily.

"Great," I muttered, looking at the elevator display slowly, silently tick down. I waited until it had reached the bottom, and when the doors opened, I pushed the tiny round button for the top floor and then stood still, waiting to go back up.

I hesitated when at Warren's door. It had only been about ten minutes since I'd left, maybe, but I hoped that he hadn't already gone to bed or gotten in the shower in that time. I knocked on the door once and waited. When I heard no movement inside, I knocked a little louder. Still nothing.

_Great… is he upstairs? Showering? Asleep? Should I knock again? Leave? Do I really need the phone that badly?_

Sighing, I rested my head against the door, knowing the answer. Balling up my fist, I cringed as I pounded on the door, determined to get him to hear this time.

Still nothing. Sighing with irritation, I grabbed the door handle, rattling it. And was shocked when the knob actually _turned_. Either he'd forgotten to lock it after letting me out or simply never bothered (something I couldn't see from him), but the door to his apartment was open.

I've never been a particularly nosy person. I'd been taught by my parents to respect people's space and privacy. I'd had friends who would eavesdrop on their siblings' phone conversations by picking up the line and muting it. I knew people who thought nothing of walking in without knocking. I'd always considered these little intrusions to be nothing short of rude… but standing outside of Warren's apartment in the early hours of the morning, I was near the end of my rope. Blame it on my fatigue, but I allowed myself to do something I normally would never do.

I opened the door.

I stuck my head inside first. "Warren?" I called out nervously. "Hey, Warren?" No answer. I bit my lip, mentally debating whether to completely enter. After a moment, I slipped inside and took a few cautious, soft steps towards the den. All the lights were still on, as it was when I left, proof that maybe he hadn't gone to bed yet. "Warren?" I asked again, projecting my voice a little further.

_He must be upstairs, otherwise he would have heard me by now. _

Well, if he was upstairs, then I could just run and find my phone and leave without him ever knowing I'd been back inside. I liked that option more and more as I thought about it. I quickened my steps, moving first into the empty den. I scanned the room, looking at the couches, the tables, the floor. No phone. Cursing under my breath, I then walked into the kitchen. The lights there were off, and since I didn't want to attract attention by turning them on, I fumbled around on the counters, relying on the soft ambient light from the other rooms to help me.

I hit pay dirt when my fingers brushed against a little block of small plastic. "Yes," I murmured, clutching the phone tightly in my grip. Mission accomplished. Turning, I retraced my steps to the den.

Warren's apartment had an abundance of windows. From what I'd gathered, his penthouse took up the entire top floor – meaning that with the exception of the small corridor that led to the elevator, his place stretched all around in each direction; all four walls of the tower. And each of those walls, I assumed, featured spectacular view of the city. The den, for example, featured a huge set of double French doors with wide glass panes in the middle, leading out onto an expansive, impressive balcony. Walking forward, I could see thousands of tiny, sparkling lights stretching across the horizon. I hadn't really had the chance to give it a good look when we were working earlier, so I stepped a little closer on my way out, peering wistfully at the tall buildings that surrounded Worthington Tower. _My_ apartment only gave me a view of the dumpster in the back alley and the windows of my neighbors across the way. I wanted so badly to walk outside and see it all a little clearer, but I restrained myself, knowing that it would be _seriously_ overstepping the boundaries – as if I wasn't already.

"You're a lucky man, Warren," I murmured, shaking my head. "I wonder if you even know…" I started to back away, preparing to leave once again.

And then stopped.

When I was younger, I remember the first time I saw an eagle in person. It was in third grade, we were on a class field trip to the zoo, and they had a special showing of various bird species held in a small amphitheater close to the aviary. I'd been sitting in the front row with my best friend Lisa, the two of us only about five feet away from the handler. Of all the birds they'd shown that day, the eagle had been the largest, and I'd been awed by his amazing wingspan, his feathers, the way he fought to fly away, apparently aching to take to the skies.

However, what I was experiencing now wasn't exactly the same type of innocent awe. I was looking at a glorious set of feathered white wings, but they weren't attached to a bird, they were attached to a _man_.

I blinked, frozen. "Angel," I whispered. The Avenging Angel? Landing on Warren's balcony? _Why?_ Just using his place to take a rest? I took a few more steps back without thinking, feeling a little niggling of fear rising in my chest. It was the same way I'd felt when the clawed man had shown his true colors; amazed at the sight, intimidated by the implications of being in the presence of a mutant, such a hated creature. I halted when my feet hit the tile of the kitchen; I still had a perfect view of him, but I figured that from outside, he wouldn't be able to see me in its darkness.

I swallowed, remaining stock-still. The Angel had flown down, wings spread wide, and now he stood on the railing of the balcony, bending his knees in a squat, as if taking a breather. His blonde head was down for a moment, and his back and wings moved up and down with each deep inhalation he took. After a moment, he looked up, the black mask obscuring his features. Then, suddenly, he stood back up and leaped down on to the balcony, walking briskly to the doors.

My mouth fell open when he tugged on the handle and casually walked inside, his massive wings retracting and folding back behind him to fit through the door. I wanted to dash from the room and run upstairs, tell Warren that he had an intruder (an intruder that wasn't _me_, of course), but I refused to move, terrified that even the slightest motion would catch his eye. He was inside… fifteen feet away from me, tops. I was standing within spitting distance of the famed Avenging Angel; a mutant who had saved lives and had been accused of _taking_ one only two weeks ago. What was he doing? What was going on?

I couldn't breathe.

_What do I do? I don't know what to do…_

I crept even further back, taking tiny, silent baby steps. Meanwhile, he strolled into the den, stopping right in the center of the room. He sighed loudly, stretching his arms out first, then slowly the wings again, lengthening them until the very tips of the feathers brushed against the walls on either side. My God, they were _huge_. I was never any good at estimating perspective, but they looked like they could be ten feet long each. I suddenly recalled something I'd said to Warren some months ago, about the unlikelihood of the Angel being a dangerous mutant. Some sarcastic comment about him flapping someone to death. Looking at him now, with those two giant appendages looming on either side of his taut, built body, I suddenly realized that death by feathers _could_ actually be a possibility. I swallowed again, feeling little beads of sweat forming on my forehead.

The Angel reached up, grabbing the bottom edge of his mask, and in one smooth motion, yanked it up and over his head. He shook his head rapidly and breathed another loud sigh of relief, obviously glad to be free of his disguise.

And in that moment, I almost passed out. Again.

_Warren? Warren? Oh my God, oh God, that's Warren… _

Warren Worthington the third, son of one of the richest men in America, my classmate, my group partner, the famed recluse of New York City, had _wings_. Warren was a mutant. Not human, but a different species. Oh, God, a _mutant_. And not just _any_ mutant, but New York's most infamous. Oh, sweet Jehovah… was this really happening?

My legs began to tremble, and the sweat beads dropped, leaving wet lines down the sides of my face. What was it about me that allowed me to be in such close proximity to mutants and have no earthly idea? The clawed man I hadn't known personally, but I'd seen Warren several times a week for months… _how_ did he hide those wings? How could they possibly fit under his clothes?

I gripped my phone tightly in my hand, wishing that I had never come back up to his apartment. I wanted – _needed_ – to leave, but with him standing between me and the exit, I was trapped.

_Okay, Sera… okay, just stand here and wait until he goes upstairs… it's on the opposite side of the room, as soon as he's up and out of sight, just take off for the door… it'll be all right. You just have to wait for the right moment… just stand still, he can't see you…_

I obeyed my much calmer inner voice, choosing to do absolutely nothing except stand and watch with rapt, stunned attention. Warren wiped his brow, pushing thick, sweaty locks of blonde curls away from his forehead. His eyes were nearly closed; the fatigue clearly showing, but not in a negative way. He was tired from his excursion, that much I could see, but it seemed to be a _good_ tired. An accomplished tired. Re-energized, in a way. Possibly the sort of rush I myself got after successfully finishing a five-mile run – a weak comparison, I knew, to a man who could _fly_, but I was pretty much at a loss for coherent thinking for the evening.

I stood, mesmerized, hiding just inside the darkness. He pulled his wings in and then stretched them out to their full span again, throwing his head back and sighing softly as he rolled it around in a clockwise motion. A cool-down, it appeared, after his nighttime foray into the skies. Witnessing his inhuman power was a simultaneously stunning and terrifying scene – I suddenly remembered a line from _Fellowship of the Ring_, where Frodo offers Galadriel the One Ring, and then observes her transformation. _"__She stood before Frodo seeming now tall beyond measurement, and beautiful beyond enduring, terrible and worshipful.__"_ The first time I'd read it, back when I was twelve, I'd had trouble envisioning such a sight, but I suddenly found myself understanding perfectly now. Beautiful and terrible, yes.

After a long moment, he straightened up, pulling the wings a little closer, until they hung lightly on either side of him, the midpoint between being fully extended and folded back. The feathers made a slight rustling noise when he moved, I noted with some fascination. And though it felt somewhat shameful to think it in this context, I couldn't help but notice the leanness of his body, the perfect lines of muscles that showed through his snug, light clothing. I'd never seen him in anything but loose shirts and jeans; I'd had no idea he was so… so _built_. The front of his black shirt was drenched in sweat, I also noticed, forming an inverted V down his torso. I wrinkled my brow, wondering how he'd managed to wriggle into such a tight-fitting top. Alterations had to have been made… were there holes in the back, for his wings? Did it zip or button?

_I must be dreaming… I have to be dreaming… this cannot possibly be real… _

He threw his shoulders back and headed in the opposite direction, going for the stairs. As he turned, I got a good look at his back – the wings nearly cascaded behind him, hanging down and fluttering lightly like a long, flowing robe. Their bases protruded directly out of his shoulder blades (and, I saw, out of two slits in the shirt), sprouting up and out like trees growing from the ground. And they were indeed completely, one hundred percent covered in feathers… blinding white, in various shapes and sizes. I reached up and placed one hand over my heart, feeling the rapid-fire beat just under the skin. It was a good thing he was leaving, because I was feeling more and more lightheaded by the second…

_Almost there… he'll go up the steps, and I'll dash out. No problem… I'll leave and pretend like this never happened…_

In the back of my mind, I'd decided without even realizing it that sneaking out and pretending I'd never seen what I'd actually _just_ seen was probably my best plan of action. I wasn't a snitch, and according to Dylan, I was a world-champion when it came to keeping my mouth shut; locked up tighter than Fort Knox. I'd kept outrageous secrets before, I could manage this. I wouldn't tell anyone. Not Jonathan, not Dylan, not Randi, not my mother, not the New York Post, _no one_.

He climbed the spiral stairs, folding his wings up so they could fit in the narrower space. I reached one hand out and gripped the kitchen counter, steadying myself. Warren Worthington, the Avenging Angel. Suddenly, incomprehensibly, everything made so much more sense… his aversion to society, his awful attitude, his secretive nature… he didn't want anyone to find out about his mutation. Who _did_ know? His parents? Did _anyone_? I allowed myself to exhale when his head disappeared upstairs, out of sight.

_BRRRRRRRRIIIIINNNNNGGGGG!_

My eyes widened in horror. _SHIT!_

I fumbled with my phone, pressing frantically at all the buttons until it went silent. I caught a flash of the name on the lit-up display – RANDI COX – and silently swore at her in a thousand different ways. I clutched the phone to my chest, stumbling backwards when I heard the unmistakable sound of Warren running back down the stairs. Too late. Too late, and there was absolutely nowhere, and no time, to hide. I hit the counter behind me, hard, and grunted when my legs gave out and I ended up slouched in the floor, my backpack smashed against the cabinet behind me. I dropped the phone; it hit the tile with a loud _clack_. A shadowy, winged figure suddenly appeared in the open doorway, imposing and surreal just like a true angel, backlit by the lamps from the den.

The light in the kitchen came on. And then the Avenging Angel and I came face to face, staring at each other in pure horror for a long, endless moment.

_I'm going to die. I'm going to have a heart attack and keel over, I'm **sure** of it…_

I sucked in my breath sharply, barely aware of the loud, wheezing noise it made when I did so. I felt my lips quivering, my eyes watering. Warren, meanwhile, stood perfectly still, his face frozen in a similarly wide-eyed, terrified expression. His face had gone ghastly pale; the color completely drained.

I had to get out.

"Warren," I said tremulously, cringing at the way my voice cracked. I pushed against the cabinet behind me, struggling to get back on my feet, but my knees simply wouldn't work. I looked up at him desperately, with no clue what sort of excuse to articulate. What _could_ I say? I'd basically committed a crime – breaking and entering – and because of that, I'd stumbled across his biggest, dirtiest little secret. "Warren, I—"

"Get out." His voice was low, flat, emotionless. He had a naturally deep voice anyway, but this was different than usual, harsh and almost guttural. The pale, haunted look instantly disappeared from his eyes, replaced by an edgy hardness that sent a shiver of fright straight through me. I was reminded yet again of the mutant who'd been in the bar, the man with claws… he'd had the same hardened look on his face when he was holding them to that man's throat, as if he was fighting back sheer panic... a look of determination, survival…

"Warren—" I tried again, faltering, struggling to explain myself. To try and tell him that it was okay, that I wouldn't tell, that I hadn't meant to spy. That he could trust me… I shoved against the cabinet once again, this time gathering enough momentum to propel me to my feet. My phone, in an ironic bit of humor, made a merry, twinkling sound, an indication that Randi had just left me a voicemail. I bent down and hastily snatched it up. My face felt like it was on fire…

I took another wheezing, struggling gasp for air and attempted to speak again, the words coming out in an unintelligible jumble. "IforgotmyphoneandItriedknockingbut…" I sucked in another breath. "…youdidn'tanswerandIjustcameintogetitand—"

His face darkened. "GET OUT." He wasn't yelling, exactly, but I found myself cringing all the same, just like I used to do back when my father would shout at me for breaking curfew back in high school. And just like my father, when I remained silent and didn't move, it only served to make him angrier. "GET OUT!" he shouted, rising higher and higher, to the point of hysterics.

"I'm sorry," I said, nearly crying. What had I done? "I won't tell anyone, I _swear_… I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean—"

"_GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY HOME!" _I reeled a little at the anger, the pure hatred in his voice, his eyes. I managed a stiff nod, and somehow, my legs obeyed, taking a few uncoordinated steps before breaking into a reckless run. I raced past him, suddenly conscious of the outer feathers on his wings brushing against my shoulders as I tore through the doorway. I went through the den and into the foyer, my arms flailing to try and maintain balance. I ran straight into the main door, unable to stop my momentum. With shaking hands, I scrabbled at the door handle and yanked it open, running out into the hall.

I didn't bother with the elevator – I had an overload of adrenaline, and I had no desire to stand so close to his apartment and wait. I needed to get away, put as much distance in between us as possible…

So I chose the long stairwell instead, tearing down the thirty-plus flights at breakneck speed, running as if I was being chased by the devil himself. I slipped and fell more than a few times – my shaky knees couldn't withstand the pounding and pressure I was putting them through, and I even ended up skidding on my rear for several steps about halfway down.

Once on the ground floor, I garnered several open-mouthed stares as I dashed helter-skelter through the posh, intricate lobby, shoving open the thick glass doors that led into the building. The guard shouted in surprise; I ignored him.

I hit the street and kept going, heedless of my out-of-breath state or the backpack bouncing back and forth painfully against my sides. I didn't stop running until I'd reached the train station, finally allowing myself to collapse in an ungainly heap on one of the waiting benches. I buried my face in my hands and gasped for air, ignoring the curious glances of others around me, with that one thought repeating ad nauseum through my head. _What have I done? What have I done?_

When I heard the rumbling of the subway approaching, I raised my head halfway, peering between my fingers at the dirty concrete floor. I inhaled slowly, trying to regain some sense of calm. But I couldn't quite pull it off – because life, I instantly knew, would never quite be the same.


	11. Chapter 9: The Power of Guilt

**A/N:** Hello again, after a hiatus. :) This chapter has been slow going, but it's finally here. Sorry for the delay! I love the holidays, but they're always so hectic. Anyway, I'll stop rambling and get on with it. Thanks for all your reviews! I got a bunch this past week, which was kind of odd since there hadn't been an update in awhile, but they were awesome nonetheless. ;) I repeat it every time I update, but comments are always appreciated. :D

* * *

**Chapter Nine: The Power of Guilt**

_December 6, 2006  
__9:45PM_

_Warren_

Of all the evenings for my mother to start up Twenty Questions, it had to be tonight.

When I'd invited (read: been forced to invite) Sera over to my place, I'd calmed myself by meticulously planning how the evening would go. I'd prepared. I did a full-scale cleaning of the apartment, removing any and all evidence of my second life. I searched for stray feathers, washed my entire wardrobe, hid my 'costumes', shoved the books on birds and flying I'd checked out from the library into my desk drawer. I wanted to appear completely and utterly normal. Unextraordinary. Boring, in fact.

And since she was coming at ten – I'd drilled that into her head well enough, and Sera was a girl who kept her promises and was always punctual – I'd thought I'd have enough time to fly for a bit before she came over. Flying always helped me calm down, and since the thought of a female besides my mother entering my apartment sent little shivers of anxiety through me, I knew I'd need it. But like I'd said, I'd had the evening all planned. An early dinner at seven. A thirty-minute fly at eight. A shower afterwards. A last-minute cleaning check. And then, that would give me ample time to go over my notes and be ready for Sera's arrival.

But naturally, my evening didn't go like that. Not when my mother called _right_ at eight o'clock.

"Warren? Warren, honey, this is your mother."

"Yeah? Hey, mom. How are you?" I raced up the steps, carefully holding my wings out and away so I wouldn't step on the ends. I'd learned that the hard way – stairs had been particularly tricky to deal with at first. When my wings had first reached their full peak, I'd accidentally yanked out the bottom feathers many times in just this manner. Not only did it mess up their flight capabilities, but it hurt like a bitch, as well.

"Oh, good, good. Your father and I had dinner and dessert at Le Deauville this evening. Came home, relaxed for a bit, fixed a martini, watched the news." She chuckled. "Not too exciting, but a good evening nonetheless. Your father's already gone to bed, he has to get up early for that stockholders meeting in the morning." She paused. "What about you?"

"Nothing much here," I said casually_. Except for the fact that I'm being held responsible for another man's death, and it's all over the news, but it wasn't really my fault because apparently there's someone – or something – out there watching me… and whatever it is, it's powerful. Powerful enough to snap parts of a steel bridge apart. Oh, and I'm about to have a girl come up to my apartment, and all this hiding and preparing is stressing me out._ "Not much at all…"

"_Really_." Her tone changed, becoming more impish, and I paused, standing up straight. I recognized that swift change – it meant that I was about to get interrogated, and her interrogations inevitably led to a discussion of relationships… I inwardly groaned. What now?

"Really," I repeated suspiciously. I dashed into the room, fishing my hood out from the back of the bottom dresser drawer.

"Mmm-hmmm. So what's this I hear about you spending some time with a lovely young lady at Lighthouse Café?"

I blinked. "Huh?"

"Oh, Warren, don't play coy. Suzanne said she stopped there for coffee yesterday and saw you sitting with, and I quote, 'a pretty brunette'."

Sera… "Oh," I said. "Yeah. That was, um, one of my classmates. Sera. We're working on a project together. We were talking about it then."

"Sera? What's her last name?" I rolled my eyes – a typical question from my mother, always needling for background information… family names were very important to her.

"Slone, Mom. She's from West Virginia, I doubt you know any of her family. You'll have to pay for a background check if you're curious." I sighed, planting myself down on the bed. Glancing at the clock, I saw that I was already ten minutes behind. "And, for the record, we are _friends_. Just friends." Were we? Could I even call Sera a friend? The word seemed alien to me; I hadn't had anyone whom I could call a real friend in years…

Yeah, I decided. Friends. It sounded nice.

"Well, that's how the best relationships begin, Warren. As _friends_. What's this Sera like?"

I grunted with irritation. "I don't know. I'm not interested in her that way." I leaned back on the comforter, staring up at the ceiling. "Mom, I don't want to be rude, but I really have to—"

"Oh, things can change quickly enough," she interrupted. "You remember me telling you about how I didn't even want to be near your father when I first met him? But he was so persistent, and somehow we became 'just friends' as you said, and then—"

"Yes, yes, I know," I finished. "You started dating, fell in love, got married, and had me seven years later. A beautiful fairy-tale romance."

"There's no need to be sarcastic, Warren," she said primly. "I'm simply saying… maybe you should give things a chance sometimes. You never know…"

How did I get into this conversation? I sat halfway up and looked to the clock again. Twenty after eight. Shit. "Mom, I—"

"Warren, I haven't talked to you in weeks," she said disapprovingly. "You can give your mother a few minutes of your precious time. _Now_, are you going to tell me about this young lady or not?"

I sighed heavily. You didn't argue with Katherine Worthington when she took that tone. Looks like my plans for the evening were going to be altered. I flopped back on the bed, letting my wings hang over either side. "Fine."

**xxxxx**

Thanks to my mother's predilection for conversation concerning my non-existent love life, I had approximately fifteen minutes before Sera was supposed to arrive by the time I finally hung up the phone.

_Fuck_. There went my nice, relaxing, fully prepared evening.

I scrambled through my room, searching for a fresh pair of bandages to wrap myself. Once I was sufficiently wound up, I threw on a clean sweatshirt, slid into my most comfortable jeans, and nervously raked a hand through my hair. God, I hated feeling rushed…

I ran downstairs, quickly doing a last-minute check of each room, cursing my mother all the while. Thankfully, my neat freak nature meant that the premises were clear – all my cleaning beforehand had taken care of that. Sighing loudly, I stopped in the center of the dining room, trying to remember where I'd thrown my bookbags.

Then the buzzer rang. I strolled over to the front hall and pushed the button. "Yes?"

"Mr. Worthington, there's a young lady named Sera here." The clerk at the front desk always had such a formal air about him… I'd tried to be as friendly and easygoing with him as I possibly could, but he always insisted on calling me 'Mister" and never "Warren." Proper protocol, I assumed, but it made me feel old nonetheless.

"I'm expecting her," I said. "Send her on up." I pressed the box button again to turn it off and then anxiously wrung my hands. How ridiculous was I acting? I shuffled into the kitchen, noticing a bottle of sweet, dark Pinot Noir that I'd left out on the counter after dinner. Quickly grabbing a small glass from the cupboard, I poured it half-full and immediately chugged it down. Not exactly the way you were supposed to enjoy fine wine, but it relaxed me almost immediately. I'd had _several_ glasses in the days that followed my accident at Tremonte… I sighed out loud.

_I can do this. Just a normal evening. _

There was a knock on the door. I froze. _That was quick…_

_I can do this. Just a few hours. Everything's cool. _

Several minutes later, another knock. I blinked, startled, and glanced at the clock – 10:00PM exactly. I almost laughed at her militant punctuality and finally walked towards the door. Taking a deep breath, I grasped the door handle and slowly, hesitantly pulled it open.

She was standing in the hallway, fidgeting and looking as uncomfortable as I felt. She was dressed plainly, in a dark green sweater and faded jeans, her hair down and loose about her shoulders. I paused, biting my lip. "Hi," I finally offered.

"Hi," she said, sounding almost shy. She averted her eyes, and I found myself staring at her hands, which were nervously pulling at the long, frayed sleeves of the sweater. She had nice hands. Long, elegant fingers.

_Enough of that, Worthington_. I nodded quickly at Sera. "Right on time," I murmured, fighting back a smile. "Come in."

I held the door open and she slowly walked inside, looking more edgy with each tentative step. As I led her back to the den, where we would be staying for most of the evening, I noticed after a few seconds that her footsteps were no longer immediately behind me.

"Wow," I heard her whisper. I turned around. She stood just inside the doorway, arms tightly clasped together, looking all around the front foyer with wide-eyed wonder. I suddenly felt embarrassed – I'd never given a lot of thought to how my family's wealth must have appeared to others, but as I followed her gaze around the room, I began to understand. The crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling, the antique cherry side table along the wall, the matching set of Tiffany lamps in the corners of the room… the décor alone had probably cost about twice what Sera's yearly teaching salary had been. "Your apartment is, um, gorgeous," she added softly.

I felt my face flush. "My mother decorated it," I said quickly, as if that excuse would somehow humble me. "And when I moved in, I just kept it that way."

She nodded, coming a little closer to me, offering a timid, sweet smile. Where was the headstrong Sera I'd gotten to know all semester? "It's nice. Very nice."

I started walking again, indicating for her to follow. "Yeah… she's got good taste," I said. I paused when I reached the couch. What now? Sit and make some excruciating small talk for a minute? Get right to work? I gnawed at my lip, then abruptly turned. "Um, do you want something to drink?" A perfect stall tactic.

She gave me a grateful smile. "Just water is fine," she said. I nodded and headed to the kitchen.

I grabbed a set of long, tall glasses and filled them with ice. "So far, so good," I murmured to myself. Luckily, I supposed, she seemed to be a little overwhelmed by everything, which meant she probably wouldn't be as willing to ask intrusive questions, or to request a tour of the apartment. I would be perfectly content keeping her in that one room. It just made things easier for me. Less chance of her discovering anything she shouldn't.

I filled the glasses with ice-cold water from my Brita pitcher. Clutching one tightly in each hand, I started back, mentally reminding myself that everything was going to be just fine.

**xxxxx**

Just when you think you know someone, they always find a way to surprise you. I'd discovered this time and time again, so you'd think it wouldn't come as a shock. Candy, for instance; a girl who'd originally claimed she didn't want to settle with one guy – and yet I'd snagged her all to myself. My father, who I'd always thought of as a fair, honest man, apparently wasn't willing to be so fair or honest with mutantkind.

And Sera Slone, who on the outside appeared to be a stiff, formal, no-nonsense wannabe businesswoman, actually had a rather sweet disposition. Sweet, and almost innocent. Things I'd discovered this evening: she loved apple martinis, the occasional smutty romance novel or cheesy romantic comedy, and her parents' golden retrievers; she'd once dreamed of being a Joni Mitchell-style singer-songwriter, and she'd had a huge crush on Aladdin when she was younger (and apparently still did, which I found entirely too amusing). Our conversation throughout the evening was mostly easygoing and light. She was relatively easy to talk to, I discovered, once she settled in and lightened up a bit.

I had missed this sort of interaction more than I'd remembered – I'd gotten so used to being alone and fending for myself that I'd forgotten how nice it was just to be in the company of another. I watched Sera bite her lip as she thought, fingertips tapping the keyboard. Smart, hardworking, kind, pretty… no wonder Jonathan itched for her.

I suddenly smiled then, remembering the priceless look on his face when I'd pointed out the flaws in his pathetic attempt to make me look foolish. _"Just a friendly word of advice, Jonathan… next time you try to slight someone, make sure your insult doesn't turn around and bite you in the ass." _

"It's so quiet here," she said softly, pausing her fingers in mid-type and shaking out her hands. I'd brought my laptop down to the den, and we were using it to write up the report, taking turns to type. Sera wasn't used to typing on a laptop keyboard, however, and though she hadn't complained, it looked to me like her wrists were getting a little stiff.

"Yeah," I said. "It is."

"I like it. It's so peaceful, you can actually sit here and think without being disturbed… at my apartment, a good night is when there's only _one_ party going on upstairs…"

I nodded slowly. Silence was nice, true, but there were times when it could be overwhelming… "Yeah, it's nice. Most of the time."

"Mmmm." She stared off into space for a minute, as if thinking, then began furiously typing again. Smiling softly, I scooted just a little closer and leaned over, reading over what she had just written.

_The option of creating a genetically superior child sounds tempting to many parents, but the reality is less inviting. "Perfect" genetics or cellular construction simply do not exist in the real world, only in the minds of the dissatisfied. Evolution dictates that there is never a final "solution" to imperfection, because mutations are inevitable. Bacterium and viruses become hardier. Animals develop limbs and new functions to adapt to their environment. Even the systems of the human body develop differently depending on their circumstances – everything from skin and eye color, to leg length, to lung capacity. Even if this so-called "perfection" could be achieved, it would be short-lived, as evolution would inexorably put a stop to it._

"Nice," I said. I liked the way she thought – and I had to admit that reading about the evolution of humans somehow made me feel a little better about myself. It was true – humans _did_ evolve and change, albeit in a much smaller, more subtle way over time…

"Thanks," she said absentmindedly. She stopped typing and nibbled on a fingertip, her hair falling from behind her ears as she bent forward. I heard a low rumble then, a growling stomach, and then her face tinged red as she looked up, embarrassed. I laughed out loud as she gave me a sheepish look. "Sorry," she mumbled.

"Are you hungry?" I asked.

"No—oh, I'm fine. I'm fine."

I narrowed my eyes. Mentally counting back her evening, I figured she probably hadn't had much time for a dinner, if she'd even had time at all… I knew she'd been on the go all day. "Well, I am," I lied. "So I'm gonna get some leftovers out, and you're welcome to them." I didn't wait to hear her reply – I was already up and into the kitchen again.

I'd made Thai Lettuce Wraps earlier, a precursor to my dinner. I pulled out a large tray, setting it on the counter. Collecting the large leaves of lettuce in a little pile, I took out the bowl of stir-fried filling and poured some soy sauce into a side dish for dipping. I carried the tray into the den and set it on the table.

"Here," I said. "I made way too much, so… have at it."

"What is this?" She eyed the tray suspiciously, then cast a glance at me. Ah, right. I sometimes forgot that not everyone was vegetarian like me.

"Thai Lettuce Wraps. They're vegetarian, yes, but delicious." To demonstrate, I grabbed a leaf, spooned some filling inside, and poured a little soy sauce on top. I took a gigantic bite, chewed, and swallowed. "Try it."

"Okay…" She gently set the laptop aside, and reached forward. I watched, amused, as she gingerly picked up some lettuce and began putting together a messy wrap. Holding the food in one hand and her palm open underneath to catch any dripping, she took a small bite. She chewed thoughtfully for a moment, then her eyes lit up. "Hey," she said. "These are pretty good!"

"Told you." I felt very smug as I grabbed another. My parents, though they now tolerated my vegetarianism without making comments, were never willing to try any of my recipes. It was kind of nice to have a enthusiastic taster.

She helped herself to another. "So where'd you learn to cook like this, Warren?" she asked. "Your mother?"

"Food Network," I answered. "And general cookbooks."

"Ah, okay. I'm never able to keep up with those shows… I can't chop fast enough, or I forget an ingredient or something…" She chuckled. "I consider myself a pretty good cook, but anything too fancy usually ends up a mess."

"It just takes practice." _Which I have plenty of time for, of course… or used to, anyway…_

"Yeah, I suppose…" she paused to munch for a moment. Then, daintily wiping her mouth, she spoke again, her voice a little softer this time. "Just out of curiosity, and if you don't mind me asking, why are you a vegetarian? Is it more of a moral choice, or a health choice?"

I opened my mouth, and then decided I didn't know how to answer that. What had I told my parents? I couldn't quite remember the exact reason. Something about how I didn't much like the taste of meat anymore and had decided not to eat it. Despite their confusion (and initial disapproval), they'd reluctantly accepted it …

"Well," I started. "I… I just decided to try it, and liked it. I just, um, feel better. It's healthier, I think."

She accepted that statement without delving any further. "That's cool. I sometimes wish I was vegetarian, but I love cheeseburgers way too much." She smiled. "It'll catch up with me one day."

"Nah… you might as well enjoy what you like while you can," I murmured. _Because you never know what the next day is going to bring…_ Okay, I was getting way too introspective here. And _that_ was a dangerous area. I cleared my throat. "Anyway… how close are we to being done?"

"Very." She smiled, finishing off another wrap and picking up the laptop again. "So close I can practically _taste_ it."

"I like the sound of that." I held out my hands. "Here. I'll type for awhile."

She laughed, eagerly handing off the laptop. "I like the sound of _that_."

**xxxxx**

An hour later, we were finished, edited, and ready to go. A miracle, really.

Sera was in the kitchen, talking on the phone with a friend. And judging by the chagrined look on her face as she walked out, it was a conversation she wasn't too keen on having. If I'd stayed downstairs, I knew without a doubt that I'd be able to hear her entire conversation even with her in the other room – possibly even her friend's voice on the other line. My hearing, along with all my other senses, had intensified quite a bit since my mutation.

However, the more moral part of me wouldn't allow that, and so I went ahead and printed our paper, taking the time to go upstairs into my office and retrieve it. The pages were already lying on the printer by the time I reached it. I picked them up, double-checked the order, and quickly stacked them into a neat pile. Once back downstairs, I saw on the couch to wait for Sera and quietly read over what we'd written. Not too shabby. Not too shabby at all.

"What's this?" Sera walked back into the room, looking at me curiously. I smiled, holding up our evening's work.

"Our GPD report, all typed and ready to go," I replied breezily.

"Printed, already? That was quick…" She looked over it quickly, and I noted the look of sheer relief on her face – no wonder. She was probably exhausted. It was well after midnight, and I knew that she'd been up since the early hours of the morning.

We began packing up – I kept all our materials together: the report, the back-up disc, the folder of research. She'd asked me to hold onto everything, and I could only assume that it was because I was generally the earliest one to class. I stood up from the couch, stretching my arms far over my head. God, I was dying to get out in the brisk nighttime air…

"Stiff back?" Sera asked, glancing over. She had a gentle smile on her face, her eyes sympathetic. I felt a twinge of wistfulness, a sudden desire to be soothed, to let someone take care of me for once…

"You could say that," I murmured. "I just need to…" _Fly. I just need to fly._ "…move around. I've been here all day, haven't even been outside. Just studying and getting other stuff done."

"I know the feeling," she said, bending to retrieve her coat and purse. I smiled in spite of myself. _Thanks for the empathy, but I can assure you that you **don't**._ She bent to retrieve her coat and purse, and without even thinking about it, I craned my neck to check out her ass a little. Again. Christ. I needed to get laid…

"Well, Warren…" she announced, straightening up, "I'm not trying to be rude, but I'm heading out. Thanks for helping."

"Did I have a choice?" I asked, arching an eyebrow. If I recalled correctly, I pretty much didn't. Actually, I'd been threatened, if memory served. I shrugged it off – the evening had gone just fine, no problem. I'd even kind of enjoyed it… "You're welcome."

She beamed, as if proud that she'd successfully dragged me through this whole process, hitching the straps of her bag up a little. With her hair hanging loose and straight instead of in a ponytail, she looked a little older than she usually did – which simply meant that she looked like an actual adult and not a teenager. I'd caught Jonathan staring at her hair before – in one of those creepy, I-want-to-touch-it sort of ways. He probably had a hair fetish. He looked like the type to yank on a girl's head during sex, just for the masochism of it all. Jackass.

Speaking of Jonathan… I averted my eyes, uncomfortable and unused to issuing an apology. "And…" I started, "sorry. Some people just… just don't get along. End of story." Understatement. I shrugged. "And I suppose your friend Jonathan and I fall into that category."

Sera fidgeted, as well. Apparently it was a topic she wasn't much fond of, either. "Yeah, I guess. But it's over now, right? And after tomorrow you'll never have to see him again. Maybe. Unless you have another class with him, I suppose." She laughed nervously then, darting her eyes all around. Right. She was ready to leave. And no wonder, it was late, and I was tired as well… though I was determined to get a quick flight in before I went to bed.

"A shame," I said sarcastically. "Do you need me to show you out?"

She nodded, her face reddening. I led her out of the room, maneuvering back into the front foyer. "But for the record, Warren…" she said from somewhere behind me, "are you ever going to tell me what you said to him yesterday to set him off?"

I smirked.

"_And while I'm doling out advice to you, Jonathan, let me offer this as well – Sera's not impressed by your macho man bravura. I'm not the only one who can spot a fake a mile away. I'd suggest a different tactic, but I have a feeling that wouldn't work, either." I looked up, meeting his eyes dead-on. He tried to keep a straight face – a decent attempt – but the tell-tale twitch of his left lid let me know that I'd hit a nerve._

"_What the hell are you talking about?" He leaned back in his chair, struggling to hold my gaze. His lips tensed, wrinkling tightly in the center._

"_I'm talking about you and your lame, transparent attempts to get into her panties," I drawled. "Subtlety's not exactly your strong point. You might as well give up with the attitude, because if she was really interested, you'd have already been hitting it by now."_

_I thoroughly enjoyed the way his face flooded with a stark, reddish tint. "This is none of your business, you prick," he growled._

_I raised an eyebrow. "It is when I have to look at it every time we get together. Christ, Jonathan, if you any balls like a real man, you'd just ask her out and get it over with instead of acting like a pussy." Not that I wanted Sera to hang out with this douchebag in the first place, but it felt good to point out his lack of confidence._

_He clenched his jaw, practically seething. Perfect. "Fuck you, Warren."_

_I grinned. God, he made it so easy, always leaving me a window wide open. "I'd say 'fuck you' right back, but since you're obviously not getting any, it doesn't really apply, does it?"_

I smiled again, just from rehashing the memory. God, that had been utterly satisfying. Especially when he'd leaped up, face beet-red and sweating, and stormed out. _"I don't need this shit. You're a fucking asshole, and I don't have to sit here and listen to this anymore." _Bingo.

I'd watched him stomp through the café, merrily calling to his retreating back. _"See you Thursday!"_

I shook my head gently at the fresh memory. Yep, he was definitely going to be in a fine mood tomorrow when he saw me. I met Sera's eyes – they had that wide-eyed, eager look to them, as if she was fully expecting a complete rehash of the conversation. Nah. Not just yet. Maybe one of these days…

I grinned. "No," I answered matter-of-factly.

**xxxxx**

The air outside was more than just brisk, it was downright frigid. Approximately thirty seconds after Sera left, I leaped off my balcony into a clear, cloudless sky, my view illuminated by the stark white light of the moon. The air was icy cold, practically sharp as it stung what little skin I'd left bare. My lungs burned as I maneuvered between a line of tall skyscrapers, dipping and swerving at a swift speed. I would have to keep my flight short this evening, since I needed to get some rest for tomorrow, but that was okay. I was just happy to get out at all, especially after the day I'd just had... hell, the _weeks_ I'd just had. The accident, schoolwork, stress, my mother calling tonight, Sera coming over… It was tumultuous, to say the least.

I sighed, angling to do a quick hairpin 180-degree turn and heading back to the apartment.

I landed on the balcony, gracefully balancing on the railing and squatting to catch my breath before leaping down. I threw open the doors and walked inside, relieved to be warm again. I stopped in the center of the room, taking the time to stretch my wings, relaxing the rigid muscles and working through their soreness. I'd probably be a little stiff in the morning, seeing how this was my first excursion in awhile, but that was okay.

I grabbed my mask, ripping it off and sighing loudly. _I should really get to bed_, I thought. Normally, I took time to sit and wind down after a flight, maybe even eat something, but it was already so late that I didn't want to bother. After a few more stretches, I straightened up and headed for the stairs. _Long day tomorrow… but then I'm done, and I can rest._ I smiled at that thought, and began climbing the stairs.

I'd reached the top and was nearly to my room when I heard it. A familiar ring, the sound of a cell phone going off. I halted, startled. _What the fuck?_ My entire body stiffened; my heart began racing.

_Wait… that Sera's phone…_ I clattered back down the stairs. Sera was gone, but apparently she'd left a present behind. _It's coming from the kitchen… she must have left it in there when she got the call._ Yet another thing for me to add to the collection of stuff I had to take to class in the morning. Well, no big deal, I could just throw it in my bag, and hopefully I'd remember to give it to her tomorrow.

Then, the ringing stopped. I frowned – it hadn't rung for very long; unusual. I ran to the kitchen doorway, feeling a strange rush of adrenaline in my chest. Something felt off. Very off…

I flipped on the light.

**xxxxx**

Two years ago, in the early afternoon of an otherwise ordinary day, I'd stiffly awakened on the cold tile of my dorm room shower. I'd gotten up, looked into the mirror, and received the shock of my life – a newly winged mirror image that had caused me to become nauseous, to cry, to feel as if my heart and lungs were going to explode inside my chest and asphyxiate me. It was a feeling that I was _sure_ I'd never experience again – it was far too extreme, too painful, to live through again.

And yet, tonight, in the extreme late hours of an otherwise ordinary evening, I was unfortunate enough to experience it a second time, like deja vu.

"Warren," Sera said, her voice trembling and quavering, like a flimsy piece of paper rattled by the wind. My breath caught in my throat. _My wings. Oh fucking Jesus Christ, my wings, she can see my wings…_

I wanted to die. I wanted to sink into the ground and never be seen again.

Because Sera – Sera Slone, my classmate and supposed 'friend', was on my kitchen floor in a pile, looking more terrified than I'd _ever_ seen anyone look in my life. I was at once furious, terrified, desperate, and disbelieving. A thousand and one questions raced through my head, all clamoring to be the first asked – _What are you doing? Why are you here again? And how the fuck did you get in here? _– but I couldn't articulate a single one.

Instead, I stared back at her, mirroring her horror with my own, painfully conscious of the incriminating set of appendages looming from my back. No more hiding. I had nowhere to run.

She tried to speak again. "Warren, I—"

I didn't want excuses. I didn't want reassurances, or accusations, or any sort of conversation, period. I wanted to close my eyes and pretend like none of this ever happened. I wanted her to _stop_ looking at me, at my wings, with that horrified expression…

"Get out." The words sounded alien – low and harsh and far away, as if the sound was coming from another body. Had I just said that?

Sera struggled to her feet, and I could see her legs shaking, even from across the kitchen. "Warren," she said desperately, snatching her phone up from the floor when it made another odd beeping noise. I tightened my hands into fists, growing angrier by the second. Hating her for becoming witness to my darkest secret, hating myself for letting my guard down and bringing her into my life in the first place, hating God for turning me into this abomination and putting me in this situation to begin with. She clutched the counter, steadying herself, her eyes never leaving mine as she tried to explain herself. Something about the phone, knocking on the door and not getting an answer, and…

Oh, _fuck it_. She'd fucking entered my home without permission. I felt my face grow red. "Get out," I hissed at her again – quite simply, I couldn't think of anything else to say. "GET OUT!"

Her chin began to quiver – she was starting to cry. "I'm sorry," she said hoarsely. "I won't tell anyone, I _swear_… I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean—"

I couldn't take it anymore. All rational thought had long since flown out the window – no pun intended – and I snapped. "_GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY HOME_!" I screamed at her, letting the full brunt of my rage surface. I was heedless of the terror in the young woman in front of me, the woman I'd considered to be pretty much the only friend I had, up until about five minutes ago. Rational thought was no longer an option. Instinct took over, and I let anger disguise my fear.

She went silent, only nodding as an answer. Before I could even blink, before I had time to move, she took off at a dead run out of the kitchen, clattering through the penthouse. Her body brushed against the edge of my wings as she jetted through the door – the first time a person other than myself had touched them – sending an unusual little shiver right through me. I didn't move, didn't turn to watch her leave. Seconds later, I heard the front door slam, and then all was quiet.

I grabbed the door frame, swallowing. To say I was in a state of shock would have been the biggest goddamn understatement of all time. "Oh, shit," I whispered aloud, pressing my body against the frame for balance, struggling to remain calm. What just happened? What the _fuck_ just happened?! "Oh, shit, shit, _shit_…"

**xxxxx**

There are times in life when you feel so hopeless, so desperate, so completely _destroyed_ by the hand life has given you, that you can't even make it out of bed.

Thursday, December 7 – that was one of those days.

I lay awake all night. After Sera had 'left' – "run away in horror" was a more accurate description of it – I'd somehow made it upstairs and into bed. I don't actually _remember_ this happening, but I must have done it, because when I returned to my senses in the early hours of Thursday morning, I was lying on top of my covers, clad in only my boxer shorts.

I blinked, staring up at the darkened ceiling. I had no idea – no earthly fucking _clue_ – what I was going to do about this fiasco. I'd been so, so careful; how could this have happened? How could I keep a secret this huge from longtime friends, from my _parents_, and yet allow a girl whom I didn't even know all that well to discover it? What was she going to do, who was she going to tell? I didn't believe for a second that she wouldn't say anything, though she'd attempted to make that flimsy promise last night. Hell, she could make a hell of a lot of money just by alerting the media. And why wouldn't she? A poor college student, working her ass off just to get by, and suddenly a gigantic cash cow falls in her lap?

I reached up, rubbing my eyes. I had one hell of a headache.

_I should have talked to her,_ I thought. Screaming at her, though it certainly felt good at the time, didn't help my case any. Maybe if _I'd_ stayed composed, I could have calmed _her_ down, and we could have worked out a deal. I didn't like the idea of blackmail, but if it took money to keep her mouth shut, so be it. I certainly had enough to spare, and I knew I could beat any offer from the New York Post or likewise. But now… what could I do? I would have been perfectly happy to have never seen nor heard from her ever again, but I knew that wasn't an option. Call her, maybe? But what if she'd already told someone? What if it was too late?

"Fuck," I whispered aloud, clenching my eyes tightly closed. "_Fuck_."

My alarm rang shrilly – alerting me that it was time to get out of bed and get ready for class. Which was almost laughable, really. Fuck class. Going to the final meant seeing her; it meant being vulnerable, facing up to the travesty of the evening before. There was no way in hell I was going to put myself in that position right now. Our presentation would pretty much be ruined, and my grade would certainly be shot, but I didn't care. And what would a bad grade matter in the grand scheme of things, anyway? I had more important things to stress about. I simply could not do it, not now.

I reached out, slapping the alarm angrily. My wings twitched underneath my back; I was lying on them and they longed to be stretched, but I refused to move. Fuck these wings, too, they deserved to be in pain. They'd caused _me_ enough, hadn't they?

With the silence of the room restored, I remained in bed, staring stonefaced at the ceiling.

**xxxxx**

At around 10 o'clock, I still hadn't gotten out of bed. That is, until the phone rang. Incessantly. And since I only kept one phone in the house, a cordless, and that phone was downstairs, I had three choices: go down and answer it, go down and disconnect it, or remain in bed and listen to the shrill rings until my brain leaked out my ears.

I angrily jumped out of bed, heading downstairs with the intent of ripping the phone out of the wall. Halfway down the stairs, I heard the machine pick up.

"Warren? Warren… I know you're there."

_Sera._ What was she doing, calling me?!!?

Her voice was hesitant as she continued. "I mean, I think I know you're there, I'm pretty sure… I hope you're listening. Um… Warren, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry for what happened last night, for the way I reacted, and… I don't know, this isn't the time or place or method to go into this, but I just wanted you to know that. We should talk. We need to… later, whenever you, um, feel up to it. And… I didn't tell anyone. I swear. And I'm not going to, I promise. I'm not like that." She paused for a long moment. "Warren? Please… pick up the phone."

_Like hell_, I thought. I started walking again, my feet hitting each step and echoing in the empty apartment. I heard a loud, staticky sigh, and then she began talking again, her deep voice slightly muffled.

"I hate this, I know you're upset… I know this sounds awful, and I hate that I have to ask this, but… you have all our stuff. Everything… and we need it. And, well, we need _you_. Please…"

_What? You expect me to come to class today? You expect me to do you a favor, after you broke into my apartment last night?_

Her voice dropped lower. "We're going last, so it'll probably be like… an hour and a half before we're supposed to go, but we need all the materials. Please, Warren, _please_ don't do this. I know you're angry and rightfully so, but I am begging you to just—"

The machine beeped loudly – it had cut her off. I stormed into the den, glaring at the tiny gadget, watching the red LED merrily blink, reminding me that I'd missed a call.

And then the phone rang, again. And I refused to answer. Again.

"Warren? Please… it took everything I had to get up and come this morning, I was so upset… I know how you feel… I mean, well, not _really_, I guess, but… the point is, I'm _sorry_. And please don't do this, not when we've worked so hard all semester…" She continued on, talking and cajoling and repeating herself ad nauseam, but I ignored it all. But for some reason, I didn't pull the plug. Let her bare her soul if she wanted to. Throwing myself facedown on the couch, I stretched my wings out on one side and let them hang down. When all else failed, I opted to simply sleep. I could forget about this mess for awhile and at least stay out of trouble. And maybe, if I was lucky, I'd dream about being fifteen again, back in the days of normal things, like homework and two-hour tennis practices, cute girls and awkward sex, crude joints and forbidden beer in the dorms. No wings involved. Those, as they say, were the days.

_BRRRRIIIIIIING! BRRRRIIIIIIING! BRRRRIIIIIIING! BRRRRIIIIIIING!_

"Leave. Me. Alone," I muttered through clenched teeth.

_BRRRRIIIIIIING! BRRRRIIIIIIING! BRRRRIIIIIIING! BRRRRIIIIIIING!_

Fantastic. Now, it appeared, she was simply hanging up before the machine picked up and then immediately re-dialing. What the hell was her problem? If I'd wanted to answer, I'd have _answered_ by now, goddammit…

_BRRRRIIIIIIING! BRRRRIIIIIIING! BRRRRIIIIIIING! BRRRRIIIIIIING!_

I swore loudly, leaping up from the bed and stalking over to the machine, angrily shoving the coffee table aside in my wake. It was tempting again to just unplug the whole mess, but by that point I was so pissed off I wanted to vent some steam. I grabbed the receiver mid-ring, growling. "WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU WANT?"

"Warren! Oh, Warren… oh, thank you, thanks for answering…" she seemed unfazed by my method of salutation – probably just shock that I'd actually acknowledged her calls. "Warren, I—we, um, I—oh, hell…" I'd never heard her curse, and if I hadn't been in the predicament I was in, I might have actually smiled to hear it. "You got my message, right?"

"I'm not coming," I said coldly. "Forget it. I don't know why I bothered to answer anyway." I started to hang up, but her tinny voice pleaded to me as I pulled the phone away.

"Warren, I'm not asking much… I know that I am the last person you want to see right now, and I understand that… but please… at the very least, bring me our project and leave… I'll tell him you had an emergency come up, I'll tell him anything… just don't do this to us…"

"'Don't do this to us?'" I repeated. "Name me one good reason why I should do either of you this favor, Sera. I could care less about the grade, I can't stand Jonathan, and frankly, after what you did, I don't want to fucking look at you right now."

She sucked in her breath sharply, and neither of us spoke for a long, excruciating minute. "I deserved that," she finally said, her voice quiet and defeated. "I'm sorry."

I didn't reply. I didn't feel the need to.

"Can we… can we talk about this?" she asked gingerly. "Not now, but… later?"

"Talk about what?" I asked, my voice hard.

"About… last night."

"There's nothing to talk about," I said tersely. "I trusted you, and you came into my apartment without permission. That's a crime, if memory serves. I could have you arrested, if I was so inclined."

"I know." She didn't try and make excuses, didn't protest. Just stated it like it was. It was a characteristic I'd always admired in her before…

"But I'm not," I finished. "I keep my mouth shut, you keep yours shut. End of story."

"I already promised you that," she said bitterly. "You know you can trust me, Warren."

"_Can_ I?"

The two words hung heavy over the line. It was a valid question, though, in my opinion. How could you trust someone again after she'd broken that confidence?

"Well," she said softly, in lieu of an answer to that question, "if you change your mind… it'll be about an hour and a half before we're supposed to go. But even if you don't come… if you want to talk about this, I'm here. I'm sorry, Warren. You have no idea how sorry I am." She sighed again, that one non-syllable thick with unspoken emotion, and I heard a soft click – she'd hung up on me.

_Good_, I thought, numb as I put the receiver back in the cradle. _Now I can go back to bed._

**xxxxx**

Except, I didn't go back to bed. I _couldn't_. Oh, I tried – walked up the stairs, crawled under the covers, closed my eyes. A tactic that had worked a million times before when I'd been dragged out of bed by the phone. I waited ten minutes. Fifteen. Twenty. Thirty, and then forty-five before realizing that despite my best efforts, I was _not_ going to be catching up on any shut-eye this morning.

Particularly not when the far recesses of my mind decided to fill in for Sera and continue arguing with me. Bits and pieces of our heated conversation kept running through my head, unbidden.

Fucking conscience.

'_Warren, I'm sorry… I'm so sorry…'_

"Sure," I muttered aloud. They were just words. Words were cheap. Words never fixed anything.

'_We need you… please…'_

"Fuck that," I muttered aloud. "You'll be fine." Grades weren't everything. Sera was old enough to know that.

'_Don't do this to us…'_

"Us," I repeated, disgusted. As if I cared what happened to Jonathan.

'_Can we talk about this?'_

"No," I grumbled. What could she possibly have to say? What did she want to 'talk' about? Try to offer some lame excuses for her behavior? Ask me questions? Learn more about the freak show?

'_I'm here. I'm sorry, Warren. You have no idea how sorry I am.'_

I clenched my jaw. Her voice… that plaintive, melancholy cadence it had taken, right there in the last few seconds… it killed me. I didn't know why, because I had every single right to be unforgivably angry with her for the rest of my life, but that final sentence, and final _sentiment_, slayed me.

I couldn't get it out of my head. Not even after an additional twenty minutes had passed. And I knew, without a doubt, that no amount of time would assuage it.

At least, not until I did the very thing I _swore_ I wouldn't be doing today.

Guilt is an odd thing. It eats away at you, takes over your conscience. And guilt from a pretty, desperate, crushed young woman, especially one who you sort of found yourself attracted to before the fiasco went down, is a _spectacular_ thing… because it makes you say or do things that you would have never, ever, _ever_ thought you'd do.

Like get back out of bed after having your darkest secret unlocked and then go on to your last final, pretending that absolutely nothing is out of the ordinary.


	12. Chapter 10: All Apologies

**A/N:** I'm baaaaaack:) Sorry for the delay. Long story short, I had a whole bunch of stuff happen in the past few months, which included getting a new job and moving into my own apartment. So I was pretty crazy busy, and slacked on finishing this chapter. It was actually almost ready to post back in March, but life intervened and delayed it. :) Anyway, here it is. It's not my favorite, but it was necessary. I am very eager for the next part, so I'm starting on it right away. :)

Thanks for all your reviews! As always, comments/suggestions/flames are welcome. ;)

* * *

_Sera_

"So what clever story does he have for us this time?"

I looked up at Jonathan, cringing at the way his voice positively dripped with venom. He glared down at me, arms folded tightly. We were out in the hallway; presentations were going on inside the classroom but I'd told Professor Marcus when I got to class that we had some 'issues' we needed to work out before presenting. Understatement. Once Jonathan realized who was conspicuously absent from class – his dear friend Warren – he'd nearly blown a gasket. I'd never heard so many four-letter words strung together so creatively.

I carefully cradled my cell phone in my palms, looking away from Jonathan and trying not to cry. My back was beginning to ache from sitting on the cold, tile floor, but I didn't have the energy to stand up. "He's… he's had an emergency come up. I don't think he's going to make it."

Jonathan's face froze, and for a moment, I was truly afraid he might do something violent, like put his fist through the crumbly cement wall. "What?" he seethed. "You said he had all our stuff, Sera."

I didn't miss the accusatory tone to his voice – I'd had to confess to him that Warren and I had met alone the night before and that I'd given him everything to keep. Jonathan had barely spoken to me since the incident in the coffee shop with Warren, and so that revelation had been news to him. And naturally, hearing that I'd actually gone to Warren's apartment had infuriated him even further on top of things. I could only imagine how he'd react if I told him that Warren was a mutant…

_What am I going to do? _

Talk about being in a bind. I'd royally screwed things up from every possible angle – outed Warren and pretty much ruined his life, angered Jonathan to an unimaginable degree, and now I was stuck with the possibility of failing the final in Ethics, which meant I'd have to take it again in order to graduate. What, I hadn't figured out a way to get myself expelled yet? It seemed like things couldn't possibly get worse.

But out of all of it, it came down to Warren. I could not stop thinking about Warren…

On the phone, he'd been angry, abrupt, and dismissive – and that, of course, was an improvement over the colossal screaming freak-out I'd caused last night. I felt so lost – usually when you made a mistake, you could apologize and try to make it right. But there was nothing I could do, not this time. I'd apologized over and over and over, but I knew it wasn't enough. I'd crossed a _major_ line, and there was no undoing that.

"He does," I said quietly.

"Well then what the fuck are we going to do?" Jonathan shouted. "There is _no_ excuse for this, Sera. _None_. He knows how important this is."

Important? Sure, important to us, perhaps… but to someone who spent his evenings flying high above the city saving lives, and his days hiding a massive physical mutation, decidedly not. In the grand scheme of things, a simple college presentation was really not very high on the radar…

I shook my head, once again seeing Warren's impressive eagle-like spread in my mind. How on earth had he hidden them so well? Were they folded in, tied down, what? It defied the laws of physics…

"Sera," Jonathan said sharply, interrupting my thoughts. "What are we going to do?"

I swallowed. "I don't know," I said quietly.

"Oh, that's rich," he said bitterly, turning his back on me and stalking up and down the hall. "This is partly your fault, too, you know. I don't know why you trusted him, why you were always on his side all the time. I kept telling you, I _knew_ he would fuck us over. He's an asshole, Sera, he's selfish and rude and used to running over people. But you never listened. You—"

"Look," I said sharply, feeling my temper heat up. Warren wasn't selfish or rude or spoiled… well, maybe he appeared to be to others, but that wasn't his _real_ nature. No one who was willing to risk his life every night saving people could be _that_ self-centered. "He didn't do this on purpose. His… um…" I paused, trying to make up a reasonable excuse for his absence. "His mother's in the hospital."

Jonathan paused, and I noticed the way his nostrils flared a little – like he was trying to calm down, steady his breathing. "Really," he said flatly. "What happened?"

I glared up at him, feeling angrier by the second. And fervently hoping that he wouldn't realize that if Warren's mother _had_ been in the hospital, it would have likely been all over the news. "I don't _know_ what happened, I didn't ask for details, but let me tell you, he sure as hell didn't _plan_ this to ruin our grades."

Jonathan's eyebrows quirked in surprise at my outburst. "What are we going to do?" he repeated in lieu of an apology. Why was he asking _me_? He had equal share in this debacle; couldn't he at least _try_ to come up with another solution instead of throwing everything in my lap?

I sighed, resting my forehead on my bent knees for a second. "I don't know. I think we just have to wing it. I mean, we really don't have a choice but to tell Dr. Marcus that he didn't show and he has all our stuff. We'll do the best we can. And maybe he'll let us do it later, like a make-up."

Jonathan snorted, throwing his arms up. "Fat chance." Shaking his head angrily, he slapped one hand against the wall, startling me with a loud _crack_. "I gotta take a walk," he said. "I'm so fucking pissed off right now I could scream."

"Yes, go do that," I said. God knew I could use some peace and quiet at the moment.

He didn't respond. Instead, I watched his back retreat down the hall, around the corner and out of sight. I heard the heavy double-doors that led to the outside open and shut, leaving me with nothing but the steady murmur of the fluorescent lamps in the ceiling.

And finally, I had a few moments of quiet to think, remember, and brood.

**xxxxx**

_Get out! Get the fuck out of my home!_

That command – no, _demand_ – will be burned into my mind forever.

Though I've been accused of being a goody-two-shoes all my life, I've done a lot of not-so-great things in my twenty-seven years; actions and words that I'm not so proud of and would really not care to remember. I'm well acquainted with that low, burning feeling of guilt that bubbles within after doing something that hurts someone else.

But despite all the horrible things I've done – called Mary Ellis a fat cow to her face in the sixth grade, cheated on my freshman-year boyfriend with an older guy from another school, even abandoning my fiancée, Nick, in order to pursue this wild pipe dream in New York – not once did I feel the type of oppressive, relentless remorse like I felt with the Warren situation.

It came down to this – not only had I betrayed his trust, but I'd proven myself a huge hypocrite. All semester, throughout the journey of our GPD project, I'd claimed that I had no problems with mutants. Defended them, even when Jonathan went off on one of his long-winded rants about the devolution of humanity. In retrospect, it was no wonder Warren trusted me, warmed up to me – he probably thought he'd found someone who wouldn't judge him, should he ever decide to come clean. But what had I done? Reacted with fear. Sheer terror, actually. I'd screamed, cried, and begged, all things that did not particularly indicate that his mutation was no big deal to me.

I was ashamed, simply put. I'd cried – actually _cried_, once I finally made it home and safely inside my apartment. Adrenaline brings you to the highest of highs, and I'd coasted on that during the entire train ride, never quite calming the jitters that came with the fear. Getting home, however, had changed that. You know that awful feeling when the adrenaline drops? Normally, it's a slow process, a careful subsiding until your mood levels off. But last night, I'd simply crashed. I was exhausted, drained, but unable to sleep. So I'd just sat on my bed, curled into a little ball while hot, fat tears dripped down my face.

Yet somehow – a true miracle if I ever saw one – _somehow_ I'd made it out of bed this morning, showered, and come to class. As if everything were perfectly fine and nothing was out of the ordinary.

Warren, on the other hand, apparently wasn't up to playing that particular charade. And I couldn't blame him.

"Oh," I sighed aloud, leaning my head back against the wall with a low _thunk_. So what now? He could avoid me today, but could he avoid me forever? Possibly, considering the size of this school and the classes – after today, the semester was over and in January the process would begin anew. It certainly wasn't as if we ran in the same social circles, either – actually, I was pretty sure Warren ran in no social circles, a fact which had seemed odd to me before discovering his secret. The poor guy, always hiding…

I wondered who else knew about his wings. Parents? Any friends at all? Doctor? He'd done a spectacular job of concealing them – something that still boggled my mind every time I thought about it. And Warren, as reclusive as he was, still counted as something of a celebrity, with his enormous wealth and high-profile parents. I'd never once heard _any_ trace of gossip that he was a mutant… How had he kept the rumor mill silent all these years, staying out of the tabloids? And for that matter, just how long had he been a mutant? Since birth? Childhood? Or was it more recent? I'd remembered reading an article in TIME magazine once about dormant mutations that waited to develop later in life…

I wanted so badly to ask all these questions – now that I had the time to reflect, I wasn't really afraid anymore, mostly just curious… I both pitied and admired him, and I had an uncontrollable itch to pick his brain and figure out how he made it all work. I'd meant what I'd told him – I wouldn't tell a soul. I wasn't interested in money or blackmail or special favors, despite what he probably thought. I just wanted to… well, to _learn_. To learn and understand…

I groaned, curling my knees up and resting my elbows on them as I massaged my temple. Well, one thing was for sure – I might have been ready to learn, but Warren was _not_ interested in teaching me.

**xxxxx**

"Sera?"

I lifted my head slowly, staring up at Dr. Marcus. His head peeked out of the classroom, and concern was etched across his solemn features. When it became apparent that Warren was a no-show, I'd begged him to let us go last so that we could try and regroup. He'd agreed to let Jonathan and I stay out in the hall while we figured out what to do... but obviously, our time was growing shorter and shorter, and I still had no plan.

"Yeah?" I asked quietly.

His eyebrows furrowed. "Where's Jonathan?"

I tapped my fingers nervously on the floor. "Um… good question. He's… blowing off some steam, we should say."

A look of understanding dawned on his face. "Warren still not show?"

"Um, no. And… I don't believe he will. He had a… a family emergency come up." Amazing how easy it was to tell this lie. Why? It would have been so easy to be truthful and say that Warren flaked out and I didn't know why he wasn't there…

Dr. Marcus pursed his lips. "I see. Well, Sera, you'll have to do it without him. I won't penalize either of you for his absence."

"He has all our stuff," I said quietly. "So we're in trouble there."

He sighed heavily and hung his head. "That's why I tell all you kids to keep copies of your material," he said with reproach. "To prevent these kinds of incidents."

I bristled slightly at his use of the word "kids". I was twenty-seven years old, quite a far cry from a 'kid'… and I didn't appreciate his condescending tone. "I get that," I said icily. "I suppose that after working eight hours, taking two finals, and finishing up this presentation at one in the morning last night, it somehow managed to slip my mind."

Dr. Marcus raised one eyebrow. "When Jonathan gets back, come back inside," he said, choosing not to acknowledge my sarcastic reply. "I'll work something out with you two."

"Okay," I mumbled, staring down at the floor once again. The door closed, and I was alone yet again in the silence of the hall.

**xxxxx**

Ten minutes later, I heard the door at the far end of the hall creak open and slam shut, echoing all the way down the corridor. I suppressed a groan – it was probably Jonathan, on his way back to bitch and moan about our situation some more. I wasn't looking forward to bringing him inside to meet with Dr. Marcus.

I didn't bother looking up, instead, I remained in the floor with my legs crossed, idly picking at the dry skin around my nails.

The footsteps came closer, clicking gently against the tile all the way up the hall. When he was a few feet away from me, he stopped, and I let my eyes drift over to his shoes. A pair of dark black leather dress shoes – not the brown boots Jonathan had been wearing. I jerked my head the rest of the way up, staring up at my new company.

Warren.

He'd come. He'd _actually_ come… I felt my eyes widen.

He looked exhausted – no surprise there, as I was fairly sure that like me, he hadn't gotten an hour's worth of decent sleep last night. His hair obviously hadn't been washed, and though he was dressed appropriately for a class presentation, his clothes seemed to be a little rumpled and unkempt, as if thrown on in a hurry. Though I tried not to, I couldn't help but stare at him and remember the way he looked the previous night, with his snug clothes and wings unfurled – majestic, statuesque, surreal, and beautifully terrifying. Now, however, just an ordinary kid; a slouchy, grumpy college student…

I blinked, startling myself back to reality. "Warren!" I exclaimed with a little too much enthusiasm, leaping to my feet and scurrying to him. I halted, though, when I was directly in face to face with him, suddenly realizing that I'd been on the verge of throwing my arms around his neck to give him a hug. Instead, I fluttered them nervously in front of me as I struggled to remain composed. "Hey," I said nervously. "You came. I can't believe it. You really came."

_Your wings… how in the world do you hide your wings? I can't even tell…_

"Yeah." He had his hands shoved deep in the pockets of his coat, and he neither smiled nor frowned as he spoke. Rather, his face was an unsettling mask of perfect blankness, like a wax figure. I waited for him to expound on that, but he didn't. I inwardly sighed. Obviously, it appeared that the bits of personality I'd cultivated out of him were gone, completely erased. I watched as he slowly lifted his bank and pulled out a folder – our presentation material. I sighed sharply with relief.

"Thank you," I whispered. I carefully accepted the folder from him, hoping he didn't notice that my hands were trembling. Warren, the Avenging Angel, quietly standing less than two feet away from me… It felt so strange, being so close to a man – no, _mutant_ – who was, well, famous. Which was somewhat ridiculous, considering that Warren _himself_ was pretty famous just for being his rich self, and I'd gotten over that fact fairly quickly. I looked up, mentally commanding every muscle in my body to react normally. "Thank you so much, Warren."

_This all seems so awkward, so mundane… casual, polite, forced conversation…_

"Sure." He shrugged and turned, as if leaving. Panicked, I stumbled after him, swallowing hard. He didn't turn around, so I walked sideways as I spoke, trying to keep up.

"Hey," I said uncertainly. "Um… what I said on the phone… I meant it. All of it. I'm sorry." He kept walking, and I kept tripping along beside him. "I made a huge mistake and I apologize. I shouldn't have done it. I don't blame you at all for being angry. And I promise I won't tell a soul. I—"

The door down the hall screeched open and slammed shut again, startling me into silence. As soon as I heard the next set of footsteps, I felt my heart speed up a little with dread. This time, it really was Jonathan, strolling around the corner with a sour look on his handsome face. As soon as he saw Warren, that face soured even further. Actually, I guess you could say it pretty much _curdled_. And by the way Warren visibly tensed, I could tell the feeling was mutual.

I closed my eyes, bracing myself before remembering the little white lies I'd told on Warren's behalf. I stepped forward and grabbed Warren's arm without thinking about it, speaking low and from the side of my mouth. I felt the muscles of his forearm tense under the pressure of my fingers. "I told him your mother had to go to the hospital," I mumbled in a rush. "I had to think of a good reason why you didn't show…"

He nodded curtly, still staring ahead at his arch nemesis. I let go of him, backing away and casting a furtive glance towards Jonathan. He stalked towards us, glowering.

"Nice of you to show up," he said, practically spitting out the words.

"Jonathan," I said quietly. "Just stop—"

"I know, I know," he said sarcastically. "Play nice. Fine. Do you have our shit, Warren?"

"Yes," Warren said, his voice dangerously low.

"I have it right here," I said, holding the folder up. "Now, let's just go—"

Jonathan interrupted me. "How's your mother?" he asked evenly.

"She's fine," Warren answered. I squirmed at his side, hating the fact that I had to be involved in this situation at all. "She was having trouble breathing. An allergic reaction to some medication she's on." He cast a slow, deliberate glance my way. "She's fine now."

"Well, that's nice," Jonathan said flatly. "Now let's go get this over with."

Warren regarded him coolly. "I'm not—"

"Yes, let's go," I blurted out, my voice rising to a comically high pitch in an effort to stop Warren's next statement. I knew what he was going to say – _'I'm not doing it,'_ or something similar – and I also knew that hearing that would cause Jonathan to seriously blow a gasket. I threw the next words out in a rush. "It's just about time, Dr. Marcus came out here to talk to me just a few minutes ago, and he said to come inside when we were ready."

Warren narrowed his icy blue eyes. "Sera," he said with a warning tone, "I told you, I—"

"Oh, and thanks for keeping this stuff," I interrupted, slightly embarrassed when I realized I was practically shouting in my efforts to continue cutting Warren off. "And thank you, again, for coming today…" Warren's mouth closed tightly as I spoke. "I know it wasn't easy," I finished quietly.

"Okay, okay," Jonathan said, oblivious to the unspoken dialogue currently buzzing between his teammates. "Let's go."

Warren tried one more time. "Really," he said. "I have to go—"

And then, Dr. Marcus saved the day.

"What is all the shouting about?" The three of us turned to see our bewildered professor, peeking through the door once again. "Julie and Troy are trying to give their presentation in here, people." He paused, noticing that our third member had arrived. "Warren," he said. "Glad you could make it. Everything okay at home?"

Warren glanced at me yet again. "Yeah. Everything's fine now," he mumbled.

"Excellent. Well, come on inside," he said, pushing the door the rest of the way open. "Now that you're all here."

And this time, with the professor's no-nonsense stare locking him in place, Warren didn't protest. The three of us silently filed into the room and took our seats.

**xxxxx**

Fifteen minutes.

That's all it took. A semester of suffering, months of playing mediator, weeks of stressful late nights, and one spectacularly horrible evening led up to this: Fifteen measly minutes of presenting and discussion.

Standing at the podium, shakily reciting the speech I'd memorized, I couldn't stop my mind from wandering, pondering if it had even been worth it. _No_, I finally decided. _No_.

It went well, at least as well as could be expected. Jonathan and I both stumbled in our rebuttals – since they couldn't be pre-prepared, we had to speak extemporaneously and that ability was apparently non-existent in either of us. Warren, however, glided through both his prepared part and rebuttal without flinching. Not even when he was challenged about the cure by Erica Wilkins, a cool, snide redhead who was defending the other side. He merely tossed her a patronizing smile, fired off a snappy remark, and effectively embarrassed her into silence. Warren's father's involvement in the current 'mutant cure' was common knowledge, and considering the circumstances, I found it astounding that he could stay so calm when discussing it. Amazing – his own _father_ was helping eradicate his kind. It made me wonder, more than ever, if his parents actually knew. But again – if they didn't, then _how_?

"Great job," I whispered to him when he sat back down next to me, attempting civilized conversation. Both groups were seated in the front of the room, behind our respective podiums. I fidgeted, cracking my knuckles as I scanned the semi-bored faces of our classmates, who were listening to Dr. Marcus's opinion of our debate. We'd been the last group to go, and he hadn't told us to return to our seats yet. Regardless, it was over. "Really. You did well."

He didn't respond. He stared straight ahead, ignoring me. I furrowed my brow and continued to crack my knuckles, wondering how long it would bother me that Warren Worthington III hated my guts. With a long swallow, I realized that the answer was fairly evident: a long, long time.

"Thank God that's over," Jonathan murmured, gently nudging my leg. I turned my attention to him, sighing. Well, at least _he_ seemed to have calmed down. For now.

"Yeah," I said softly. "Agreed."

"I'm getting drunk tonight," he muttered. "I'm done with classes and I need a break."

"I'd be there with you if I didn't have to work," I said dryly. "A little Captain Morgan and Coke sounds pretty damn good right now…" I squeezed my hands into fists, cracking my pinkies one by one.

"Could you stop that?" Warren hissed. I glanced over at him, surprised, and noticed he was staring at my hands. Oh, so _now_ he was speaking to me?

"Why?" I grumbled. "It's just a nervous habit, sorry."

"It's loud and obnoxious, and besides, you're ruining your joints." With that statement made, he turned away again.

"_What do you care, anyway?"_ I whispered to myself, the words barely more than a soft breath of air against my lips. I noticed his shoulders tense and jaw visibly clench, and my eyes widened. Had he _heard_ that? Did he have some insane superhuman hearing ability, as well?

"Well done, everyone, well done." Dr. Marcus's voice snapped me back to attention, and I realized that class was officially over – for the last time. "Your grades will be posted online by next Tuesday. If you have any questions before then, email me or stop by my office. Otherwise, you're finished. Have a good break."

Everyone clapped and stood up, collecting their books and bags. Warren, however, shot out of the room like a rocket, bypassing the professor to reach the door first. I froze, watching him leave. I knew I'd probably never talk to him again, but there was a small part of me that wanted to try again. Just talk and apologize one more time…

"Hey, you want to grab some lunch?" Jonathan asked nonchalantly, breaking my concentration. He seemed utterly unfazed by Warren's departure. Actually, he pretty much looked thrilled. Not that I could entirely blame him, but still…

"Yeah," I said slowly. "But… I have to go to the bathroom. I'll be right back. Okay?"

"No problem." He strolled to his desk for his bags, whistling softly along the way. _Whistling_!

With that, I jetted out the door, bypassing the bathroom and running down the stairs in search of the Angel.

**xxxxx**

I found him outside on the lawn, stalking across the grass at a brisk, hard pace, apparently forgoing the sidewalks to take a shortcut to his car. I kicked it up a notch and jogged after him, cursing my high heels and flimsy, lacy bra. I thought about calling his name, but decided against it – I was already making too much of a scene as it was.

I caught up with him, grabbing his firm arm again to catch his attention. He immediately threw me off without even turning around – he knew who was behind him, and he sure as hell wasn't stopping.

"Warren," I gasped. "Wait—"

"Leave me alone," he growled, lengthening his strides. "For the last time, just _leave_."

"Please, let's talk about this, just stop for a second," I urged, trying to keep my voice low. Luckily, because of finals week, the campus wasn't teeming with students like it usually was, so our strange interaction elicited only a few stares. "This must be so hard on you… you've taken on so much, and—"

"No," he said curtly, cutting me off. "We're not discussing this. Not now, not ever."

"Why not?" I continued to pace with him, and shrugged my shoulders. "I thought we were… well, I thought we were sort of friends, and I don't want this animosity between us—"

He suddenly switched directions, throwing me off-balance as I overstepped and stumbled ahead of him. He gave me a blank, icy stare over his shoulder as I stood up and doggedly followed. "Then maybe you should have thought that before you barged back into my apartment without permission," he replied coolly. "Do _friends_ do that?"

I hung my head. This was going to be impossible. Why was I punishing myself? I should have just given up an hour ago and salvaged what little of my dignity I had left… "I know, I know," I said quietly. "I didn't mean—"

He waved his hand violently, cutting me off. "Enough," he said crisply. "I don't want to hear it."

"Maybe you don't want to hear it, but I have to say it," I said desperately. "I'm sorry—"

He stopped then, jerking around to face me. As he turned, I found myself staring at the profile of his shoulders – and once I looked closely, _very_ closely, I could see a nearly indiscernible outward curvature of his spine. His wings, pressed tightly into his back – in whatever way he managed to do it. It was a wonder I'd never noticed before, but I supposed that was what he'd strived for – to be invisible, nondescript. And he knew just how to stand, just how to slouch to disguise it…

"You could apologize fifteen thousand times – and I believe you _have_, Sera – but it doesn't change a thing," he seethed, balling his hands into tight, whitened fists. "Your words are cheap, and I don't want to hear them. All I want is for _you_ to keep your fucking mouth shut and _leave me alone_."

Ouch.

I winced. I had no idea what else to say. _Was_ there anything else? "Oh," I whispered. I almost added another 'Sorry' to that, before stopping myself, knowing that it very well could send him into a full-on rage.

"You got it?" he snapped. I nodded mutely. "Good." With that said, he turned and stalked across the lawn, leaving me trembling in his wake. I stood perfectly still until he was out of sight, disappearing between the library and Breckinridge Hall. Gone.

_Oh, Warren_, I thought, an indescribable sadness settling into my chest. I knew I had to return, to find Jonathan and go to lunch and pretend that my life was absolutely lovely, but I didn't want to move. _What have I done?_


	13. Chapter 11: A New Year

**A/N:** Well, look here! All I'll tell you is this -- you can never quite count me out, even if it's been an inordinately long time since a last update. Just ask my friend Zeeba. ha.

So if there's anyone still reading this story, thanks. :) I've been newly inspired to work on it thanks to the Wolverine trailer, which looked much better than anticipated and got me all excited for more X-Men action. This chapter is a little transitional, but the next one should be more exciting.

That's all. :)

* * *

_December 25_

_Warren_

Christmas carols are obnoxious.

"_Silver bells… silver bells… it's Christmastime in the city…"_ I closed my eyes, listening to my mother's _Celebrate the Season_ album for what had to be the tenth time that day. She'd had it on a loop while helping Rita, the cook, prepare Christmas dinner, and I'd had enough. Glancing towards the kitchen, I thought about getting up, but decided against it.

"Mom!" I shouted. "Can I change the CD?"

She wandered into the den a few moments later, giving me a look of disapproval. "Warren," she said reproachfully. "Don't yell. It's uncouth."

"Sorry," I mumbled. Katherine Worthington was always calm, articulate, and relatively soft-spoken, but she knew exactly what to say to put me in my place.

"And yes," she finished. "Yes, you can change it." She raised an eyebrow, smiled, and retreated back into the kitchen.

I wandered over to the stereo, and sat down. My parents had an extensive collection of Christmas albums, everything from _An Elvis Christmas_ to Barbra Streisand's _Christmas Memories_ to _Time-Life Music: A Treasury of Christmas Classics. _I flipped through dozens of CDs before giving up. Truthfully, I wasn't in the mood for Christmas music, period. I'd grown tired of soaring ballads about God and angels and silver bells. Sometimes, they just hit a little too close to home.

With a shrug, I flipped the mode on the stereo, searching through the XM Satellite Channels. I stopped when I reached 'Sounds of the Seasons' and stood up. The room was suddenly filled with the croonings of a dulcet children's choir.

"_Hark! The herald angels sing… glory to the newborn king!"_

I groaned, pressing my thumbs against my temples, feeling the dull pounding underneath. Of course.

**xxxxx**

As I'd done about a thousand times since that fateful Thursday, I wondered what exactly Sera Slone was doing at that very moment. Was she having dinner with her family, as well, basking in the yuletide spirit? Or maybe she was out with her friends, the twins she'd mentioned a time or two during our interactions. Or perhaps – and this was a huge stretch, although I had to admit it was a possibility – she was with Jonathan, having dinner at some trendy restaurant he'd chosen to impress her.

But regardless of what she was doing, or where, or whom with, I wondered if she was as tormented with her newfound knowledge as I was.

Once the anger had ceded, and the shock worn off, I was left with a storm of feelings much harder to deal with – loss. Emptiness. Vulnerability. For the second time in my life, I thought I'd had everything under control, only to somehow watch it all crumble right beneath my eyes. I'd become a mutant at 16, stripped of any semblance of a normal life, but I'd _dealt_ with it. I'd adjusted; _evolved_, you could even aptly say, to a lifestyle of solitude and secrecy. And now I was faced with another evolution – learning to live with the knowledge that someone else knew my secret. I no longer had complete power – as of Wednesday, December 6th, Sera owned a hefty share of stock in my life.

_Has she told anyone?_ I leaned my head against the couch, staring up at the ceiling. I didn't really have any proof either way, but a gut feeling told me she hadn't. If she had, the chain of rumor would have surely hit the tabloids by now. Besides, after witnessing her begging fit and knowing a little about her deeply loyal nature, I finally decided, deep down, that she wouldn't tell – at least not intentionally. I wasn't worried about any malicious blackmail on her part… however, I _was_ worried about a casual slip of the tongue. Perhaps when out drinking with her friends, when the topic of the Angel came up, her common sense could be altered just enough for her to confess something truly outrageous to everyone within earshot: _"The Angel? Oh, you'll never believe this! I know who he is! That's Warren Worthington the third… I saw him myself, flying back into his apartment…"_

I sighed heavily. It didn't do any good to think like this, because frankly, there was nothing I _could_ do to change things. Short of Sera coming down with a sudden case of amnesia or – God forbid – dying, I'd have to accept that I'd never truly be safe from discovery again.

I needed to think about something else for awhile. Anything. I'd rather listen to Dad give me a detailed lecture about stock options than brood over this any further… I abruptly stood and began marching toward the kitchen. Mom was still creating her dessert masterpiece, and I knew that if I made an appearance, she'd put me to work. And for once, that was a good thing.

"Mom?" I walked in. My mother's kitchen was a chef's dream – spacious, immaculate, and stocked with a virtual grocery store of ingredients and William-Sonoma cookware. Interesting, considering she rarely touched any of it. She and Rita stood in the middle of the room at the cutting-board island, rolling out flat sheets of dough for pie crusts. She looked up when I entered, brushing a strand of graying hair back behind her ear. There was a light dusting of flour across her cheek, and with a wistful smile, I thought the look suited her well.

"Yes, Warren?" she replied.

"Just seeing how things were going," I said lamely, watching her deftly flatten the dough on the cutting board.

"Well, fine, for the most part… I'm just making the crust for the first pie." She let up off the rolling pin, inspecting the thin sheet of dough she'd splayed across the countertop. She frowned, noticing a small crack forming on the outskirts, and picked up another piece of dough to patch the area.

"Oh," I said. When neither she nor Rita said anything else – they were involved in their work – I hesitantly spoke up. "Can I help?"

Mom arched an eyebrow, amused or perhaps just perturbed at my sudden interest in the culinary arts. "Help?" she repeated. "Oh, really?"

I shifted uncomfortably under her penetrating gaze. As I'd said before, my mother was no fool, and while my father didn't notice the deepening aura of despair surrounding me as of late, she had certainly picked up on it. And this? Willingly offering assistance for something I'd never bothered to help with before? She was, no doubt, completely befuddled. I had worse mood swings than a teenage girl.

"Well, yeah," I said. "I'm a pretty good cook, you know… and I'm bored." Both true.

She studied me silently for a second, one side of her mouth curling up in a wry grin. "Go wash your hands," she finally said. "And I'll put you to work."

I smiled back as I strode to the sink, grateful to have a distraction for the next few hours.

*****

"I must say, Warren, I've been very impressed with you this semester," my father announced. We were sitting at the large oak table in my parents' dining room, dimly light by a large candelabra hanging from the ceiling. I sat quietly in my chair, digesting both the enormous slice of cherry pie I'd just wolfed down and the sudden declaration of pride from my father.

"Impressed?" I repeated, bewildered. I'd been described as a lot of things in the past few months by a lot of different people, but I couldn't recall "impressive" being among the adjectives. Quite far from it, actually.

"College is hard work," he continued. "And it's easy to get distracted by less important things." His eyes shifted over to me, and his face settled into a warm smile, somewhat softening the rough edges of his words. "I'll be honest, I was worried about you, Warren."

"Worried?" I asked. "What, you thought I'd flunk out?" I expected him to laugh it off, but the slight purse of his lips told me that he _had_ thought that.

"It happens to plenty of kids," he said in his calm, levelheaded way. "Tom Christian's son – you remember him, Troy? -- he lost his scholarship at Princeton the first year." Dad shook his head. "Shame. He's a smart kid, but he made a lot of bad choices. But you, Warren – you've kept your eyes on the goal." He smiled again. "4.0? I can't ask for any better than that. I know it took a lot of work and focus, and I'm proud of you for sticking with it."

"Thanks," I mumbled, staring down at my empty plate. What dad saw as "focus" and "hard work" could really just be chalked up to my complete lack of social life. Other than late-night jaunts in the New York skies, I pretty much stayed huddled in my apartment. What else was I supposed to do except study and cook my fancy vegetarian meals?

Dad raised his glass of wine in a toast. "To Warren," he said solemnly, "and his continued success."

My mother raised her glass, but her face was decidedly less thrilled. "Success in _all_ areas," she added. "Because there's more to life than just academics."

My face burned at the underlying message to her words. "Thanks," I muttered, picking up my glass to clink against theirs. I took a long drink of wine, licking my lips once I'd downed the glass.

"So what classes do you have next semester?" Dad asked, oblivious to my mother's attempt to shift the focus towards my personal life.

"Statistics... Business Writing... another Ethics class..." I ran my finger over the wet rim of the wine glass, listening for the faint hum. "And astronomy."

"Astronomy?" Dad repeated. "Is that part of your degree requirement?"

"It's an elective. You have to have two science classes, and if you're in the business college, they don't care which two you choose," I said. "So I went with astronomy. Thought it sounded interesting."

Truthfully, I'd thought it sounded like a class that could be useful. Since constellations helped our ancestors when they were far away from any landmarks, I figured the same logic could be applied to my flying. In the city limits, I just used buildings, bridges, and signs to help me determine my location. But there were times when I flew beyond the edge of the city, with only trees underneath me for miles and miles. Being able to understand the fixed points in the sky could help me get my bearings.

"That does sound interesting," Mom said. "I think the stars are fascinating."

"So just four classes?" Dad asked, frowning slightly. Shit, I knew he'd notice that. "How many hours is that?"

"Twelve," I answered.

"That's the minimum for a full-time student, isn't it?"

I nodded, not liking the direction of the conversation.

"But you took 17 hours this past semester," he said. "Why so few this time? If you have to drop one, that'll knock you down to a part-time student, and you'll lose your scholarship."

_Well, Dad, I decided that saving the world and taking 17 hours a semester at the same time was a little stressful, so I decided to make an easier schedule to cut myself some slack. _"It was pretty rough this semester," I said. "I thought I'd take it a little easier next time."

"Rough?" he repeated. "You got straight A's, Warren. Must not have been too rough." He chuckled. "I think you should add another class. You can do that, right? Can you go see your counselor when school starts back up?"

I stared at my empty wine glass, refusing to meet his eyes. _You don't get it. You have no idea who I am. _That was a common complaint about teenagers – the declaration that parents just didn't understand – but in my case, it was truer than most. If he knew the sort of pressure I was under, he wouldn't have blinked twice about me only taking 12 hours. But cutting back for what seemed like no good reason, other than it was a lot of work? He was probably worried about me becoming complacent, lazy. Two characteristics that Worthingtons were _not_.

"I don't want to add a class," I mumbled.

My father cleared his throat, tossing a glance to my mother. "I know 15 hours is the average," he said. "It takes 120 credit hours to graduate, and if you're doing a four-year degree, that's 15 hours a semester. If you only do 12, you'll be negating those extra hours you did last semester. In fact, you'll be an hour behind."

"I know," I said, seething. "It'll be fine, Dad."

Would it? I wasn't even sure what I was talking about anymore. My life was a royal mess, and I wasn't sure it would ever be 'fine' again. It was so frustrating to be surrounded by people who didn't understand my motivations; who questioned my decisions about my classes, living situation, social life, diet...

_Well, there is **one** person who would probably understand now... _

I grabbed the bottle of Chateau d'Yquem and dumped a hefty serving into my wine glass. I took a long draught, letting the bittersweet liquid burn my tongue and throat. Sera? No, Sera wouldn't understand, much as she'd tried to convince me otherwise. _No one_ understood.

_Maybe not, but she knows why you do the things you do... She wouldn't question why you were only taking 12 hours. Knowing her, she would have suggested it. She's probably figured out the reason for your vegetarianism, if she really thought about it. She knows why you live alone, why you have no friends, why you have no girlfriend..._

"Well, I just don't want you to get too far behind," Dad said, reiterating his earlier point. "Classes will get harder as you get into your degree, and if you can knock out as many of the General Ed hours as you can now, the better off you'll be later."

I heard Dad, but I wasn't listening. Instead, I silently continued the raging inner debate over Sera; the pros and cons of her knowing my secret. _Yeah, you could have had a real friend there, Warren, someone who offered to be there for you whenever you needed her, but you pushed her away. Probably never see her again. Good thing you're so used to being alone._

She'd broken into my apartment. How else was I supposed to react? She'd crossed a huge barrier and broken my trust. As I'd told her, I could have had her arrested. Hell, I _should_ have, just to prove a point.

_She made a mistake. And apologized for it, sincerely, a hundred times. She could have helped you, if only you'd calmed down and talked things through like she wanted._

Helped me? Helped with _what_? Zipping me into my shirts? Preening my feathers? Watching the news for updates on dire situations I should be fixing?

"Warren?" Mom asked, leaning forward. She rested her hand on my arm, a gentle touch that brought me back into the present momentarily. "Honey, are you all right?"

"There's other stuff I want to do," I blurted out. A vague memory popped into my mind: Sera laughing as she described an embarrassing wipe-out in her Ultimate Frisbee class. "I... I want to – I was thinking about playing a sport. For fun, not for the school. Joining an intramural club. Ultimate Frisbee, maybe." I swallowed, feeling terrible about the lie when I saw the way my mother's face lit up. "I just figured, I didn't do much outside of schoolwork last semester, but this time I wanted to... get more involved."

"Well, that's wonderful," Mom said warmly. "You'll have a lot of fun _and_ do a lot of networking. Won't he?" She threw a meaningful glance at my father, almost daring him to argue. I could practically hear her silent words: _He's socializing, like a normal teenage boy! This is progress, don't interfere! _

Dad, for his part, picked up on the hint. "I played intramural sports in college," he agreed jovially, veering the topic into safer, happier territory. "Basketball, softball, flag football... made a lot of good connections, and good friends that way. Good call."

I just nodded, wondering how long it would take before they would find out I hadn't followed through on that vague promise to get more involved on campus. I'd deal with that later. For the time being, I'd gotten them off my back, and that was enough. Ultimate Frisbee, what a joke. And who did I have to thank for that idea?

I closed my eyes, picturing her pretty, plain face. Remembering the way her dark eyes had looked when she was crumpled on my kitchen floor, wide and white and frozen. And in contrast, the way they'd looked when I'd walked up to her before our presentation, full of hope and apology. And then, her expression when I'd told her off on the quad – quivering lips, teary eyes. Shameful. Crushed.

And then I remembered the way _I'd_ felt, seeing her lying on the floor, terrified of my looming wings after she'd spent months claiming to be perfectly fine with mutation. Fear. Anger. Desperation.

I took another drink of wine.

**xxxxx**

I lounged on the balcony of my parents house several hours later, staring off into the dark horizon. They'd both gone to bed right after we'd exchanged gifts, but it was too dicey to attempt a jaunt into the nighttime skies. My parents were heavy sleepers, true, but the people they paid to run their household weren't. Which was good – the live-in help kept an eye out for any unusual activity and never hesitated to call the police when they had suspicions. They'd prevented Mom and Dad's house from being burglarized nearly a dozen times. However, it wasn't so good for me. Someone would probably see me leave the balcony, and even if I tried to take off from another point – my bedroom window, for example, which was on the back side of the house – they could see me either leaving or returning to the property. Too risky.

The night was cold, silent, still. The wind had remained constant but light all evening, gently rustling the leaves of the large oak trees planted around the house. I sat in the largest of the cushioned deck chairs, sipping on a highball filled with my father's most expensive scotch and soda. It tasted absolutely terrible, but I didn't care, as it made me feel warm. And numb.

_Merry Christmas, indeed.._. Sighing, I reached into my coat pocket, pulling out the gift my parents had bestowed upon me earlier in the evening – a set of solid 18K gold cuff links with a W-shaped diamond inlay. It seemed a boring but expensive gift, had one not known the story behind it. This particular pair had belonged to my grandfather, Warren the first. I'd been told they were the first pair he'd ever purchased, originally crafted in 1945 by the finest goldsmith in New York. The Great Depression had come and gone, the war had ended, and his brainchild, Worthington Industries, had just gotten off the ground. As proof that he had finally made something of himself, he'd gone out and purchased the elegant pair, customizing the design himself. The history behind the tiny gift was mind-boggling, and I could understand why my parents had waited until I was of age to hand it over. The sentimental value alone rendered the cuff links priceless, and even I knew my younger self wouldn't have been able to grasp the enormity of having them passed into my ownership.

I fingered the delicate jewelry, turning them over so that the diamonds sparkled in the moonlight. They were yet another symbol of Worthington opulence, but I liked them. I liked knowing that my grandfather, a man I'd not had the chance to meet, had once held them in his hands, much like I was doing. He'd faced enormous obstacles in his life, but he'd made it through. And so would I, somehow.

I heard a snap, like the crackling of wood on a campfire, and I immediately shot to attention, jumping to my feet. A tree branch breaking, perhaps? An animal of some sort stepping on a twig below? Or something else? I blinked and shook my head, trying to clear my head from the haze of alcohol. Securing the cuff links back in my pocket, I strode to the front of the deck, gripping the banister as I scanned the grounds with sharp eyes.

Nothing. Except... was it? I got a familiar, twitchy feeling, like I was being examined under a microscope. But it felt different this time, somehow. I wasn't frightened. Just suspicious. And maybe just a little bit drunk, which would explain the paranoia.

I stayed at the rail, refusing to let it go so easily. "Who's there?" I called out sharply, the wind carrying my voice across the lawn. "Who's there? I know you're here."

Nothing. _You're being ridiculous_, my mind admonished. _You're overreacting because of Sera. There's no one out there._

I stood ramrod-straight at the railing for nearly an hour, watching and waiting for another sign, but none ever came. The paranoia (along with the alcohol buzz) passed, and I sighed, walking back to retrieve the highball. I went inside, taking light steps through the silent house.

**xxxxx**

_January 16_

By the time school started again, the discovery incident seemed long, long ago, as if it had happened in another lifetime. Sera was never far from my thoughts, but true to her word, it appeared she'd told no one. Though a cloud of wariness continued to follow me wherever I went, I'd relaxed enough to resume what little of a life I'd had. Class, as dull and redundant and it could be, would actually be a welcome distraction.

The first day back on campus is always a hellish one. I'd had trouble procuring a parking spot – though I'd paid the hefty fee for one of the exclusive, elusive slots in the parking garage next to the student center, the first week was usually a battle of rights. New students, who generally didn't know any better or weren't aware of the strict no-tolerance policy by the campus meter maids, attempted to park in areas they weren't allowed. It was a pain in the ass for me, and seeing the stacks of pricey parking tickets stacking up on their windshields as I walked through the garage was only somewhat satisfying. It usually only took one or two notices before the newbies got the hint.

At any rate, the battle for parking was the reason I was late for my first class back on the first day – astronomy, the class that had perturbed my father. I hustled across the quad, checking my watch and swearing loudly and creatively at the lumbering Ford Taurus that had taken my usual spot. I knew what would happen when I arrived to class – I'd come in late, everyone would stare, and then the whispers would begin. I was rarely tardy for class or important appointments, but anytime it did happen, people gossiped: Warren Worthington III deemed himself too important to show up on time.

I took the steps of the Morgan Science building two at a time, scrambling to the fourth floor. I walked in room 412, critically eyeing the small number of chairs. Not good. Small classrooms meant small classes, which meant more participation and all that 'getting to know your fellow students' shit. I much preferred auditorium lectures, which lent themselves to anonymity. Simply show up, listen, take notes, and leave. Perfect for guys who wanted – or needed – to be invisible.

I was one of the first to arrive, so I chose a chair near the back, determined to be as inactive as possible. I kept my eyes glued to my desktop as other students streamed in, and I barely even noticed when the professor strode to the front of the room and closed the door. Slouching in my chair, I mindlessly doodled on a torn sheet of notebook paper as he spoke, droning through the syllabus and expected coursework for the semester.

And then, the roll call.

"David Higgins?" the professor called out.

I pressed my pen hard against the paper, coloring in one of the random little triangles I'd sketched across the page. "Suzanne Lowery?"

I frowned when the ink suddenly stopped flowing. I held the pen up to the light, curiously looking at the tube inside. There was plenty of ink left. What the hell?

"Sera Slone?"

I dropped the pen.

"Here," called a soft voice from somewhere to the front and left. My eyes automatically trailed towards the sound, and I clenched my hands into fists, trying to remain calm. She was sitting right up front, in typical good-girl Sera fashion, her thick brown hair loose and flat against her shoulders, like a heavy curtain. Of course – how could I not have anticipated this? I'd been certain I'd never see her again, due to the size of the school, but we _were_ in the same college… our paths were bound to cross again at some point…

I stared at her profile, strangely mesmerized by the delicate shape of her upturned nose, unsure what to do about the conflicting urges wrestling inside me. I wanted desperately to talk to her, yet I wanted to never deal with her again. I just couldn't decide which I wanted _more_.

Shit. What was _she_ doing taking astronomy at 10:10AM on Tuesdays and Thursdays? Had I mentioned taking this course at some point?

"Trevor Underwood?"

I leaned forward, burying my face in my hands. _Calm, stay calm._ I wasn't prepared for this… I liked to always be prepared, have a plan… I was so fucking _sick_ of the curveballs that life kept throwing at me.

"Warren Worthington? Is Warren Worthington here?"

I slowly lifted my head, aware that first, the professor had apparently already called my name three times and I'd somehow missed it, second, my face was blood-red and flushed from my sudden panic, and third, everyone in the class, _including_ Sera Slone, was staring at me. I knew I shouldn't have done it – and I _tried_, I honestly tried not to look at her – but I couldn't stop my eyes from shifting her way. Our gazes locked for an eternity – her eyes widened, and then I noticed a flush steal across her cheeks. Ah, recognition.

And in an instant, she'd dropped her gaze and turned back around, staring forward at the professor. The _only_ one. The rest of my classmates continued to ogle me, forming their first opinions before I could even open my mouth.

"Warren Worthington?" the professor repeated once more, visibly irritated.

I coughed, wishing I'd been blessed with the power of invisibility and not flight. "Yeah," I muttered. "Here."

"Thank you," he said sarcastically. "Carrie Young?"

The rest of the class slowly turned around, and I leaned my head back, exhaling loudly. Options, what were my options? I could drop the class and take it later, but it was only offered in the spring semester, and the only other time it was offered this year conflicted with _another_ class I had to take. I could simply ignore her – but that, it seemed, was going to be easier said than done.

Or, I could actually _talk_ to her.

Fuck! I'd always known life would get harder as I got older, but Christ... with this kind of stress eating away at me every time I turned around, I'd die of a heart attack before I turned forty.

_Calm. Stay calm. There's nothing you can do about it now, since you're here, so just wait until you get home and work something out._ I closed my eyes, letting my rational inner voice soothe me. A logical statement. Once I was home, I could get out the class schedule, maybe make some calls, pull some strings... or not. I'd just have to wait and see. Exhaling loudly, I picked up my pen and pretended to take notes as the professor began his lecture.

When class ended, I shot out of the room, the first one to exit the door despite having sat in the very back of the room. I stalked down the hallway, wiping a thin sheen of sweat from my brow, thanking God that I didn't have any more classes that day. But I stopped just before I reached the stairs, realizing that in my haste to get the hell out of the room, I'd left my backpack behind.

"Fantastic," I muttered. So much for getting out ahead of everyone else. I pulled an abrupt about-face and marched back towards the door. And as I rushed back into the room, my method of staring at the floor to avoid all eye contact betrayed me – I ran smack into something tall, soft, and perfumed.

Sera cried out in surprise as I walked into her, backpedaling into one of the desks behind her and landing in an ungainly heap on the floor. She grimaced in pain as she hit, and I immediately felt guilty – I was the classic case of a man who didn't know his own strength, especially when I'd been naturally infused with such strange, strong abilities to begin with. If she'd run into another man, she'd have simply been knocked back a step or two, but I'd rammed her clear into the row of desks five feet back.

"Are you okay?" I heard one of our other classmates ask, and for the first time, I realized that there were still others in the room. Sera looked up at me from the floor, her hair a little mussed, lips slightly parted in halted words, and slightly dazed. I didn't know what to do – ignore her, get my stuff and move on, and risk looking like even more of an asshole? Help her up? Apologize? Which option would make me less conspicuous?

Luckily – I suppose – Sera quickly solved that dilemma for me. "_I'msosorry,"_ she mumbled in one long, thick word, and before I could react, she'd leaped up with admirable speed and dashed past me out the door.

_Just like she did that night at the apartment…_

I blinked, absolutely loathing the fact that I'd been nothing but the center of attention all day. As my classmates stared first at Sera's departing shadow and then at me, I shrugged, my voice straining to sound nonchalant.

"Guess she was in a hurry," I said, coughing, before rapidly walking to get my backpack and leaving.

**xxxxx**

I made a decision in the day between astronomy lectures: If Sera approached me, I would give in, listen to her, and we'd talk. If not, I'd continue to ignore her and we could both pretend nothing out of the ordinary had ever happened. I could opt out of the class and take it at another time, to prevent any future awkwardness.

But as it turns out, I didn't have to worry about finding another astronomy section, or dropping the class, or having some dreaded heartfelt talk with Sera. Because on Thursday, when I reluctantly returned to the Morgan building for my second astronomy lecture, she was gone.

"I'm passing around a new class roster," the professor announced at the beginning of class. "We had a few people drop, a few people add in, so I'm going to take attendance for the first few weeks until things are settled. Just sign next to your name to show you attended today."

I couldn't understand why I was antsy to get the sheet, but I nearly snatched it out of the hands of the girl in front of me, ignoring the way she gave me a not-so-subtle once-over as she turned around. I quickly scanned the list, looking not for my name, but hers.

It wasn't there. She'd dropped the class.

And despite the conflicted thoughts I'd had the first day, I felt my heart sink. She'd dropped the class. She wasn't going to apologize anymore; she was done. So _done_, in fact, that she'd removed herself from my vicinity. It hadn't seemed like a big deal when I'd thought about dropping the class; after all, _I _was leaving _her_.

But when the situation was reversed... I couldn't help but feel, deep down, like I had been abandoned.


	14. Chapter 12: Under the Influence

**A/N:** And another. As I said, the Wolverine movie inspired me to work on this again, mainly because of this chapter, which I'd had planned out for a long time. Enjoy, Gambit fans. :)

* * *

**Chapter 12: Under the Influence**

_Sera_

_Monday, February 4_

"I tell you, I'll be _glad_ when spring gets here."

I looked over at Jonathan, smiling as he pulled his toboggan low over his ears. His cheeks were raw and red from the biting wind, and I knew mine must have looked the same. I pushed my scarf up over my mouth and nose, attempting to protect as much skin as possible.

"I know," I mumbled through the scarf, rubbing my gloved hands together. "Winters in West Virginia were cold, but this is ridiculous. We're only about 400 miles northeast of Morgantown... I didn't think there would be that much difference."

"It's the ocean," he said as we strolled the sidewalks of Ledding Street. "Once the water gets cold, it's over. This place will be an icebox until it heats up again."

"Fantastic," I said dryly. "I guess I'll get used to freezing all the time."

He leaned over, kissing an exposed patch of my cheek. "That's why they invented chili."

I followed him into the restaurant he'd chosen for our lunch date, a little hole-in-the-wall diner called Sal's Soups & Sandwiches. Cheesy alliteration aside, Jonathan had promised that the place had the thickest, heartiest chili he'd ever eaten, which sounded perfect on a day when the wind chill had dipped into the negative. We chose a little table against the left wall. I peeled off all the layers of clothing I'd piled on for my walks around campus that day – jacket, hat, earmuffs, scarf, gloves, pullover hoodie.

Once we'd ordered our chilis – Hot & Spicy for Jonathan, Homestyle for me – we set the menus aside. He gave me a sweet, easygoing smile, reaching across the table and catching my wrists as I brushed my bangs aside.

"Your hands are still cold," he commented, taking turns covering my hands with his to warm them up. It was a simple gesture, very sweet, and typical of Jonathan's protective personality. But while he seemed completely comfortable with our budding relationship, I couldn't quite match his enthusiasm. Dating someone exclusively again seemed strange, alien; and though we'd been dating several weeks, I couldn't quite bring myself to call him my boyfriend. It just didn't feel _established_ yet, I supposed. We'd known each other for months, but for me, our affair was in its infancy stages. Jonathan, meanwhile, was moving full steam ahead.

"Yeah, those gloves aren't much match for this weather," I said. "I probably need a better pair."

"Damascus, maybe," he said thoughtfully. "They're pretty good. They sell them at that sporting goods store down on Keithshire. They're not too expensive, either. We could stop down there later, if you'd like."

"Sounds good." I squeezed his hands back. Life had gotten so much easier, actually, now that I didn't have to deal with Warren on a weekly basis. The ugly side of Jonathan – that special animosity he reserved solely for Warren and all of mutantkind – had disappeared, and he was once again the affable, handsome guy I'd met on my first day at SWU. Nice, fun, and drama-free.

"So what's going on this weekend? Got any plans?" Jonathan asked, winking.

I laughed. "Girls' night out, remember? Randi's dragging me downtown with the rest of her girlfriends on Saturday. And Friday I promised Dylan I'd have dinner with him. I think I'm going to be meeting his latest love interest."

"Oh, yeah, that's right." He pouted a little in jest. "Girls' night out, huh? Sounds like fun."

"I'm sure. Pretty much any activity with Randi is sure to be entertaining – maybe not necessarily fun, but entertaining." I smiled, picturing her bright, perky face and frenetic gestures. "I used to go to the bars with her all the time. She says now I'm 'out of practice' and that I need to come out with her more or I'll lose my capacity for alcohol."

Jonathan nodded. "Well, if you have fun with her, you should. Go out, eat, drink, be merry, all that... Just be safe. _And_, don't go home with any strange guys." He winked, and I chuckled at his request.

"I'll keep that in mind." Our waitress approached with two steaming bowls, and I released his hands, leaning back in the chair and tossing my paper napkin in my lap. The waitress slid my bowl in front of me, and I inhaled deeply, taking in the rich, savory scent. "Oh, you're right, this looks good."

"Told you."

I stirred the dark, thick stew with my spoon, waiting for it to cool before indulging. For the first time in awhile – well, since I'd started school – I felt like my life was approaching normal. The past semester had been incredibly stressful – starting over, adjusting to being the older, more conspicuous student in classes, dealing with Warren and his secrets... I couldn't deny that I thought of Warren and that awful night often, but not having to see him several times a week certainly helped me recover. When I'd run into him in astronomy – and what were the odds of _that?_ – I knew I couldn't handle being in such close proximity three times a week. The man _loathed_ me, the hatred practically radiating from his every pore. He'd been just as horrified to see me as I had hime. So what other choice did I have? I'd dropped the class immediately, knowing it was in both my best interest _and_ his.

"So have you talked to Warren lately?" Jonathan asked, the question deceptively casual. Startled, I dropped my spoon, wondering how he'd tapped into my thoughts. He hadn't so much as mentioned Warren's name since the day of our final project, so I was confused and suspicious about the topic coming up at such a random opportunity.

"No," I said quickly, picking up my spoon. I scooped up a mound of chili, blowing on the top. "No, why?"

Jonathan shrugged. "He just walked by. Saw me through the window and shot me a dirty look." He snorted. "Whatever. Just didn't know if you had told him we were dating yet."

He had just walked by? I couldn't help but crane my neck to the right, trying to see further down the sidewalk through the window. Jonathan, deeply engrossed in his chili, didn't notice my attempt to catch Warren's retreating back.

"Um, no," I said. "I mean, I haven't even seen him or heard from him... so no, I guess he doesn't know we're dating." It seemed like such an odd thought to have – why would Warren care if I dated Jonathan? As I'd said, the man held little to no concern for my personal affairs. He had plenty of his own to worry about. "But I guess he'll figure it out, eventually."

Jonathan smirked, devouring another bite of chili. "I guess so."

**xxxxx**

_Wednesday, February 6_

I usually appreciated Andrew's fatherly attitude, but there were times when I wished he would trust me to take care of myself – and his bar – without assistance. Ever since the robbery incident, he'd been adamant about scheduling me to work with at least one other person, always a guy. And that special treatment applied _only_ to me. Rick, Daniel or Andrew himself could close the bar by themselves, but I needed a babysitter, apparently. While I knew he did it out of concern – he'd never be able to forgive himself if something should happen while I was alone – it was a little annoying. I may have been young and female, but I wasn't helpless.

"Go on home, Drew. Your wife sounded pissed," I said. She had called to inform Drew that his two young twins had been taking turns vomiting all over the carpet in their bedrooms. They'd been sick all week, but Drew hadn't been home a single evening since the previous Friday. He'd originally scheduled Daniel to work the evening shift tonight, but when Dan had called in sick, he'd turned to me. And naturally, because I couldn't be left alone, he had shown up to supervise. It wasn't the most efficient system of scheduling, and he knew it. Which was why I was hoping to convince the man I was capable of closing down McCarthy's myself tonight.

He frowned. "I don't want to leave you alone here, Sera. Let me call Rick... maybe he can come in and close with you."

"Drew," I said, smiling. "I'll be fine. I promise. It caught me off guard the first time. If it happens again, I'm totally prepared. I've been learning from my _Billy Blanks Tae Bo_ DVDs." I laughed, but he didn't appreciate the joke.

He sighed, rubbing his bald head. Some people fidgeted with their hair when they were speaking. Andrew fidgeted with his scalp. "I don't know, Sera. I still don't like the idea of you sittin' here without a back-up."

"I'll be fine. What's the point of installing this fancy security system if you're never going to trust it to work?" I tapped lightly under the bar, grinning. Our new 'security' system was in fact a police-issue Taser that Andrew had confiscated from a friend. "It's easy to use," he'd assured me the day he brought in the weapon. "Just point and fire. And don't worry, you'll disable a guy, but you won't kill him. It'll give you time to take his weapon from him and call the police."

"Fabulous," I'd responded. I didn't like the thought of shooting _any_ sort of sharp electrified object into a person, safe or not, but if it made Andrew feel better about things, so be it.

However, even with his new security shield, he had reservations. "Still," Andrew said, sighing heavily. "I just don't like it..."

I grabbed his shoulder, squeezing it for reassurance. "Seriously. It's cool." He didn't say anything, and I pressed further. "Donna is probably tearing her hair out," I added. "Go home and take care of your babies, Drew. They need you _far_ more than I do."

He finally wavered. I knew the children angle would work. "If you're sure," he hedged.

I nodded, relieved. "I'm sure."

He exhaled. "All right. But... Sera. Call me if you need _anything_, you hear me? Anything."

I practically pushed him towards the door. "I will, I will. Go. I'll take care of things here."

After Andrew left, I busied myself with some easy cleaning. Wiped down the counters, dusted off the shelves, cleaned the sticky spillage on the bottles. The place was mostly empty – as I'd said before, Wednesday night crowds (or lack thereof) were the worst – but only about ten minutes after Drew walked out, two new customers walked in; one familiar, one not.

_Black Ice! He's back!_ I was startled at first; I hadn't seen the man since the night Andrew unceremoniously tossed him out of the bar, but it was unmistakably him – no one else in New York was that hairy, or had such an impressive set of mutton chops. He was flanked by a taller, leaner man with long auburn hair, a five-o'clock shadow, and an easy, swaggering smile. He wore a long brown trenchcoat and a pair of dark shades, which he didn't take off even in the dim light. He was carrying, of all things, a deck of cards, which he constantly shuffled back and forth between his nimble fingers as they walked up.

The two of them strode to the bar and sat at the counter. I couldn't stop myself from staring at Black Ice, watching with fascination as he pulled out his omnipresent cigar. I'd actually been hoping he might come in again sometime, as I wanted to thank him for saving my life, but I'd been certain he wouldn't come back. Not after Andrew's fit. Although realistically, he could have shredded Drew to pieces if he'd so wanted. He'd stayed away, it seemed, more as an act of peace.

But he was back, and I wondered _why_, and why now? The timing of their entrance coincided too easily with Andrew's departure, and I wondered if they'd been waiting outside for their chance to come in. But how could they have known it would just be me?

The newcomer was staring at me with interest as he shuffled his cards; despite the sunglasses, I could feel his eyes following me as I moved up and down the counter. I ignored him for the time being and exchanged a knowing smile with my metal-clawed savior. Wordlessly, I turned and pulled two cold Molton Black Ices from the cooler. I popped the lids and slid them across the bar top.

He raised one dark, thick eyebrow, pulling one bottle closer. "Good memory," he commented. His voice was just as gruff and gravelly as I remembered.

I shrugged with feigned humility. "A good bartender never forgets."

"Indeed, de best never forget, _ma chere_." The other man spoke up, his words sleek and laconic, a sharp contrast to his companion's low grumblings. I turned to him, curious and intrigued by his strange accent. His smile broadened, rakish and cunning. "But first, de bartender must get to know de customer, _non_? And dis customer would most certainly like to get to know _you_. What is your name?"

Black Ice coughed, a low, guttural noise of irritation. I laughed before I could stop myself, thrown by his blatant flirtation. This guy was trouble and frisky fun wrapped up in a perilously good-looking package, I could instantly see that. "Sorry," I responded, shaking my head sternly. "I'm afraid that's a well-guarded secret."

He crooked one finger at me in a mocking, scolding way. "Secrets, like long, wet kisses, are meant to be shared. But if you want to play dat way, I'm game. In de meantime, I'll take a drink."

"Well, what do you like? Do you prefer beer or liquor?"

"Whatever gets de job done... Remy doesn't discriminate." He leaned forward on his arms until his face was less than two feet from mine. "What would you recommend?"

"Well, we carry 37 beers, both domestic and imports," I said, reciting the same speech I gave to all new customers. I pointed to the taps along the far wall. "And--"

"Ah, see, I didn't ask what you _had_, I asked what you _recommended_," he interrupted, the corner of his mouth curling up into a delicious smirk. "You, _jolie fille_. What's your poison?"

"Jack and Coke," I said. "If you really must know."

"I'll take two, then." In one slow motion, he pulled off his sunglasses, and I breathed in sharply. His eyes were _red_... wait, not just red, but _red and black_. The irises glowed like the hot embers of a fire, a sharp contrast to the midnight-dark color of his scleras. _He's a mutant, too,_ I realized, the thought dim in the back of my mind. _He has to be. It makes sense, though, if he's hanging around this guy..._ His burning eyes should have frightened me, but I couldn't look away. What's more, I realized I didn't _want_ to.

"Two? I..." It took a second to regain my composure. "I can just give you a double-shot of Jack with the Coke in a larger glass, if you prefer."

"No, no, defeats de purpose, _chere_. I'll take two."

"Sure." I grabbed a set of Rocks glasses and tossed a little ice in. I poured in a shot-and-a-half of the whiskey in each glass and sprayed soda to the top. Tossing in a small straw, I pushed both drinks over to him. "There you go."

"_Merci_." He picked up one glass, rattling the ice inside, but slid the other one back to me.

I frowned. "Is something wrong? You said you wanted two..."

"I did. But not for me. One is for _you_."

His companion snorted, a truly animalistic grunt that nearly tore my attention away from those bewitching eyes. Nearly. I bit my lip, unable to stop the hot flush rising up through my chest and neck.

"I appreciate the offer," I said. "But I'm working. I shouldn't drink on the clock."

"Oh, dat's a shame, _n'est-ce pas?_ But we won't tell, I promise." He leaned even closer, lowering his voice to a husky whisper. I could feel my pulse quickening with each passing moment... and not with fear, but another baser emotion I'd be too embarrassed to admit out loud. My God, what was _wrong_ with me? "I see no one else, so you are in charge tonight, _non_? Enjoy one drink with us."

"I..." I stared at the drink, wondering why the hell I was even entertaining the thought. Andrew wouldn't be upset; he was known to knock back one or two when he tended bar, but it just didn't seem right to me – not when I was just a lowly employee. Besides, how could I be expected to operate a Taser if I was tipsy? "I really shouldn't."

"No? Are you sure?"

"Lay off 'er, gumbo," Black Ice interjected, his cigar clenched firmly between his teeth. "Shut up and finish yer damn drinks." He stood up, downing the rest of his second beer and setting the bottle down on the bar with a decisive _clack_. "I'll be back. Behave yourself."

My suitor threw him a look of complete disdain as he walked off, then turned back to me. "Forgive monsieur Logan, _chere_," he said. "His manners are, shall we say, lacking."

_Logan... his name is Logan?_ "He's fine," I said. "And his manners are fine. Outstanding, even, considering what I usually deal with in here."

"Outstanding?" He shrugged. "If you say so, though I disagree. But back to more _important_ tings..." He pointed to the glass in front of me, that mischievous smile never leaving his face. I felt my resolve slipping almost immediately, and he hadn't even given me a single compelling argument – at least, not with his words. Oh, this guy was _good_.

"Well..." I hedged. The bar was nearly empty... and considering it was Wednesday, the slowest time of the week, I doubted many others would come in... "I really don't think--"

"Tell you what," he interrupted. He held up his deck of cards, splitting the pack and demonstrating an impressive dovetail shuffle. "Draw a card. Red, you drink, _and_ you tell me your name. Black, I drink both, and you still tell me your name." He grinned at that last detail. "Fair?"

I reached over, ready to take the one off the top, but I drew my hand back, narrowing my eyes. "Let _me_ shuffle them," I said.

His eyes widened and he laughed loudly, enough for the few quiet customers towards the front to turn and look at us with curiosity. "Beautiful _and_ bold," he said. "I like it. Please, be my guest."

I took the cards from his hands. They were dog-eared; frayed and soft around the edges, and surprisingly warm to the touch. I stripped the deck and set it on the counter. "Okay," I said. Pulling the first card, I flipped it over.

The Queen of Hearts.

I set my jaw, fighting back an incredulous laugh.

"Mmm-hmmm," he said, wiggling his eyebrows. "Fair is fair. Time to drink up, miss...?" He dragged the last part out, indicating for me to give my name.

I sighed, picking up my glass. "Sera," I said.

"Full name, _chere_."

I picked out the straw, tossing it in the trash can behind me. "Fine. Sera Marie Slone."

"Ah-ha! Beautiful, fitting for a _belle_ like you." He held up his own drink, indicating I should toast with him. "_Enchanté_. And my name is Remy LeBeau, delighted to make your acquaintance. Cheers, Sera Marie."

"Right. Cheers." I tilted my glass, downing the sweet and bitter concoction.

**xxxxx**

Women love to feel beautiful. Despite our insistence that men need to love us for our brains and personality, hearing words of shallow outer-beauty praise thrills us. Your typical ladies' man understands this, and learns to quickly determine the weak points of his targets: what words, what actions will melt her icy resolve? The compliments, the sultry looks, the not-so-subtle once-overs – they're all part of the game. And when done right, they're very effective, even against the best of us.

And if flirting was a game, like baseball, then Remy LeBeau could easily be crowned the home-run king.

"And where did you grow up, _chere_? Dat accent sounds Southern, but not my neck of de woods. Tennessee? One of de Carolinas?" Remy lounged on the counter, draping his lean torso across a good portion of the bar.

"West Virginia," I said. "Not quite Southern, but close." Despite knowing that I shouldn't encourage his flirtation, I couldn't seem to stop myself. His sensuality was intoxicating, like the most dangerous kind of drug. "And you?"

"One of de oldest and most beautiful cities in dis grand country," he said. "New Orleans. Have you been?"

_Explains the accent and the haphazard French_, I thought. "No, not yet," I said. "One day, maybe when I'm done with school."

"School? _Ca c'est bon_. Where do you go?" He sat up a little straighter, his red eyes fixed firmly on mine, glowing – literally, glowing! – with intensity. My face felt hot, my mind muddied. I didn't understand. I'd only had _one_ drink, and not a strong one at that. Was I really that out of practice, as Randi always claimed?

"Sydney Williams," I answered automatically.

"Ah, yes, not far from here. What are you studying?"

"Finance." I stared at his curved, taut lips as he spoke, wondering what type of kisser he was. Soft and sweet? Insistent and demanding?

_Stop! Stop acting like a 15-year-old girl! What is wrong with you? _

"You like to deal with money, _non_?" He laughed, tossing his long hair out of his eyes.

"I..." I held myself up on the counter with my hands, though they felt disconnected, disembodied. "I'm good with numbers. I used to teach math."

"Dat is a very good quality to have, den. Where do you want to work? A large firm or company? Nichols & Rouche, Synchon Incorporated, Worthington Industries...?"

I snorted, leaning over on my elbows, my hair spilling over my shoulder. I shook my head vehemently. "No, no, no."

"No, no, no to what? Not your style?"

"No," I said. "None of them. And _especially_ not Worthington Industries."

He leaned back a little, appraising me carefully as he spoke. "No? I hear de son goes to your school. You play your cards right, _fille_ – flirt wit 'im, get in good – you would be set."

_What an odd thing to say. Shouldn't you hate Worthington Industries, seeing how they're donating to a company dedicated to eradicating your kind? _

"I know the son," I murmured, watching him pick up his glass. "And I'm definitely _not_ getting a job there."

He raised an eyebrow, his hand pausing in mid-air. "You know Warren the third, eh?"

I grabbed a piece of ice from my empty glass, hoping the chip would cool down my body temperature. "I had a school project with him," I mumbled. _Why are you telling him this? Stop it, Sera!_ "He... we had issues."

"Issues?" Remy's interest piqued further. "He break your heart?"

"No! No..." I closed my eyes, remembering the look of pure hatred Warren had thrown at me the day I'd chased on on the lawn. "I did something I shouldn't have, and now he hates me for it."

"And what did you do?"

"Something bad," I whispered. I felt detached from reality, like being lost in a dream. Why couldn't I shut my mouth?

"You? Bad? I don't believe it. Tell me, and I will be de judge of dat." He stood up, leaning over the bar towards me.

I couldn't look away from those eyes. "I found out something he didn't want me to know..."

He took ahold of my hands, gently caressing the palms. Any other man I would have shoved off, telling him to keep his happy hands to himself and move along. But I felt completely helpless; _content_, even, to let this fiery-eyed mutant take control.

"_Oui_?" he murmured. "What was that?"

I slowly shook my head. "I promised I wouldn't tell..."

"What did I tell you about secrets, _chere_?" he chided me, trailing one finger along my jawline. I closed my eyes, my breath ragged. I leaned into his hand, waiting and willing for him to make the next move.

"Hmmm?"

"What were you not supposed to tell, _chere_?" he whispered in my ear, his hot breath tickling my earlobe. I no longer cared that I was still at work, that I was kind of officially "taken", or even that he was mere seconds from getting me to spill Warren's gut-wrenching secret. I wanted nothing more than for him to throw me down on the bar, rip off my clothes, and have his sweet, dirty way with me, right there in front of God and anyone looking on.

"That's enough, Cajun." Logan's growl broke through the haze, like a shot of adrenaline to the heart. My eyelids snapped open, and Remy leaned back, his sultry features narrowing. He dropped his hands, and I automatically reached to my face, feeling where he'd caressed my skin. He sighed, turning to face his companion.

"What are you doing?" he demanded. "De _belle_ and I were in de middle of someting."

Slowly, the air became less thick and warm, my mind less jumbled. I took one long, deep breath as my vision finally sharpened, bringing everything around me into focus. I felt like I'd been lifted from a fog. I blinked, looking around the bar. We were the only three left; everyone else had left – without paying, at that. Oh, Andrew was going to be pissed...

Logan glanced over at me, snorting. "Yeah, I could tell," he grumbled. "But we gotta go. Cops are coming up the street, heading this way. And unless you can hide those red eyes of yours, we need to get the hell out before they come in."

"_D'accord_," Remy sighed. He turned to me. "We will continue dis another time, _oui_?"

"I... what?" I asked. Glancing over at the clock, I was shocked to see that it was nearly midnight – well over two hours since the two of them had walked in. Where had the time gone?

Laughing, Remy picked up my limp hand. He brought it to his lips, gazing evenly at me as he kissed the top, his scruff grazing against my skin.

"_Au revoir,_ Sera Marie," he murmured, squeezing my hand once more before letting go. He whipped out a wallet from his trenchcoat, his fingers dipping into the pocket and shuffling for a moment. He handed me a folded-up bill. "Dis should cover de drinks."

I glanced down. It was a twenty, more than enough to cover all of them, plus a tip. "Yeah," I mumbled. "You want change?"

"No, no, not necessary. You have earned it." He winked. "Be good." With that, the two of them turned and headed for the door.

_What just happened?_

I watched their silhouettes through the clear window front – one short and stocky, the other tall and lean – disappear into the dark night. I was alone in the bar, with only the muted sounds of the beat-up television in the corner to keep me company. I ran my fingers through my hair, attempting to process everything I'd just experienced. My God. What had I done? I had almost blurted out the one thing I'd repeatedly promised Warren I would never, ever speak of to anyone, _ever_. It had all happened so fast, and I didn't understand how I could have crumbled so easily on a subject I held so important. It frightened me, to be honest. I'd always thought I was stronger than that...

_No wonder Warren was so horrified,_ I thought sourly. _You claim to be so trustworthy, but you look into one insistent, pretty face and you practically spill his life story. If he can't trust __**you**__, then who can he trust?_

The door dinged, and I looked up. The cops Logan had mentioned walked in, taking off their caps. Must have been a shift switch – which made sense, considering it was midnight. I knew I had to move, to get out from behind the bar and offer them quick drinks, but I still felt numb. Frozen. Shamed.

_Move, Sera. Do something._

Swallowing, I slowly unfolded the twenty Remy had given me. Another bill fluttered to the floor; it had been tucked inside the twenty. I gave a little cry of surprise when I leaned over to pick it up, shocked. A hundred-dollar bill. He'd left me a hundred dollars as a tip. Sweet Jehovah.

_No, not necessary. You have earned it._ I sighed, running through Remy's last words as I tossed our empty glasses into the bus tray. Earned what? Why had he been so curious about my relationship with Warren? It unsettled me. Taking a deep breath, I shoved the bills in my pocket as I walked out onto the floor, approaching the cops.

**xxxxx**

_Saturday, February 9_

So Randi was right. I _was_ out of practice.

In my younger days, I was capable of staying up until the sun rose in the sky. As long as I had a slow, steady stream of alcoholic beverages and some good music, my legs would carry me as far as the night could go. Back at WVU, my girlfriends and I had loved to party at Main Street Live until four in the morning, followed by an enormous pancake breakfast at Studemeyer's, the 24-hour joint down on Mill Street... followed by an enormous hangover late that morning. It wasn't something we did every night, or even on a weekly basis like _some_ girls we knew, but it was our default party plan for birthdays and holidays.

However, a decade makes a big difference. And not necessarily for the better.

I leaned against the bar counter, staring out at the sea of sweaty dancers. It was only 1:30AM, still early for most in this crowd. But as much as I hated to admit it, I was spent. The five of us had begun making cocktails at six, before dinner, and Randi had kept them coming right up to the one I currently held in my hand – she'd been so excited that I'd come, she'd insisted on paying for all my drinks. I raised the glass high, downing the last of my whiskey sour, and set the cup aside.

_Okay, that's it. If I don't head home, I'm going to pass out here._

Decisive, I unsteadily pushed my way through the crowd. I found Randi, along with our other companion Meghan, dancing suggestively with a dark-skinned Lothario we'd encountered early in the evening, a man with smooth, sophisticated moves and words and likely the worst of intentions. I hated to interrupt, especially when the girls seemed to be _really_ enjoying themselves, but I knew I couldn't leave without letting someone know.

"Randi," I said, reaching out and grabbing her arm. I took a tentative step backwards when the room suddenly lurched. "Randi, sweetheart... I'm exhausted."

She stopped dancing and stared at me, aghast. Meghan, meanwhile, continued to grind with her seemingly boneless companion. "Sera, no! Have another drink! Come dance with us, you'll wake up!"

I laughed, wiping my sweaty, sticky bangs from my forehead. It was so hot inside, and I couldn't wait to get out into the chilly air for once. "Not _that_ kind of tired. I'm not sleepy, I'm worn out. Believe me, this has been a blast, but I gotta head home. Think of this as a practice run – next time, I'll have built up more resistance and I'll stay out later."

She pouted and protested, but after several minutes of arguing, she gave in. "Fine. But I'll come with you outside to get a cab," she said. "I don't want you wandering off alone."

I accepted her shaky arm and the two of us shuffled towards the door. I couldn't help but laugh at the absurdity of her motherly attitude – who was the likelier one to do something rash like running off alone? Our roles had been reversed for the evening, it seemed. On our way out, I said my goodbyes to the others in our party, all of whom seemed to have no indication of giving up the evening anytime soon.

_Youth_, I thought. _So resilient and persistent. I wonder if I'll ever feel that way again?_

It was a somber thought to have on such a festive night, so I pushed it aside. Besides, I'd reasoned, after the long, strange week I'd had, who could blame me? Randi guided me to the curb in front of the club after sweet-talking the guard into letting her return inside without waiting in the line that snaked around the corner. We laughed raucously as we flailed our arms in the air, attempting to flag down a cab. When one finally pulled over, she gave me a loud kiss on the cheek and a fierce bear hug.

"Call me when you get home!" she demanded. "I want to know that you made it all right!"

"I'm taking a cab straight there," I said, embarrassed when I hiccuped loudly. "I think I'll be fine, hon."

"Just do it." She wagged a finger at me as I collapsed into the backseat. "Night! Love you, Sera!"

"Love you, too, Randi. Stay safe." I closed the door, leaning my head against the back seat. I gripped the door handle and the seat as the car moved forward, hoping that I would sober up enough to make it up the steps to my apartment. Right now, things weren't looking good.

I vaguely recalled giving my address to the cab driver, and in my current state of inebriation, I could barely understand his response. He had a think accent, some sort of Spanish, but I couldn't place the exact origin. Still, he drove on without asking questions, so I had to assume he knew where he was going.

Cab rides can be awful – some are hot, smoky, and smelly, the seats uncomfortably sticky from the cheap plastic covers the drivers have installed. Others are more relaxing, and I was grateful that the man who had picked me up seemed to be cleaner and more considerate than many of his counterparts. He wasn't a smoker, his car had a relatively pleasant air-freshener scent to it, and he cracked the windows when I complained of being too hot. I let my head roll to the side as I slouched in the back seat, watching the city lights flash by.

We'd been cruising along at a decent pace for about fifteen minutes when the driver slammed on the brakes. I was tossed forward into the back part of front seat, grunting as my face met the headrest. I leaned over on my side, groaning a little.

"What happened?" I asked, my voice sounding thick and strange to my own ears. I would be hoarse in the morning, I knew.

"Accident ahead," the cabbie said. "Lots of traffic."

"Fantastic." I sat up, attempting to gauge where we were. If I was anywhere close to home, I could possibly just walk the rest of the way, even though it would go against my promise to Randi. But who knew how long we could sit in traffic? Not to mention that the sheer volume of alcohol I'd consumed would require a bathroom break sometime in the near future...

I looked out the window, staring at tall, thin cables and an expanse of water. We were on a bridge, though I wasn't sure which body of water we were crossing. Ahead of the cab, all I could see was an endless line of taillights. Curious, I rolled down my window, crawling out halfway to get a better view.

I squinted, trying to ignore the way the bridge lights flared in my blurry vision. "There are cars overturned up there," I said, incredulous. "What in the world?"

"Bad accident," the cabbie said.

"I guess so..." I slumped back in the seat but left the window open. The cold air was soothing to my flushed skin.

A loud creak snapped me back to attention. The cabbie sat up straighter, too, on alert. "What was that?" I asked.

"No sé," he stammered, shaken enough to forget to speak in English for me. We heard another creak, like the sound of metal being pushed past its resistance, and then an SUV that was several cars in front of us flipped up into the air, falling down on top of a Volvo with a spectacular crash. I screamed, ducking down in the seat. Suddenly the entire line of cars ahead of us began moving, shoving to the side, flipping through the air, spinning like tops. I grabbed at the door handle, intending to get out and run as fast as my wobbly legs would take me, when I felt our cab tilting. I tumbled to the other end as the vehicle flipped side over side, crashing through several of the bridge cables. My head ached; I'd knocked it against the back glass. I gripped the headrest of the passenger seat, attempting to steady myself.

At first, I thought the uneasy rocking was a result of my inebriation, but when I opened my eyes and focused, I realized the truth was quite different – the cab was rocking because we were perched precariously over the side of the bridge; half the weight on, half off.

_Oh my God. Oh, God, help me..._

I screamed.

Somehow, the end of the car had been spun around, and when I looked through the back window, I could see nothing but water and the reflection of lights shimmering with the waves. Because I was in the back, the movement of my weight could affect the momentum of the car's rocking. I turned around, refusing to look again.

_I have to get out. I have to do something..._

Scooting to the open window as carefully as possible, I stuck my head out, frantically searching for an escape. I couldn't concentrate, couldn't think straight. The cab driver moaned, holding one hand to his bleeding head. "Don't move," I whispered. "Do _not_ move."

I leaned out, staring at my options with a growing sense of panic. Stay in the car and wait for help, or take the risk of jumping onto the metal siding on the bridge, which was a good ten feet away? Which was less likely to lead to my death? With a growing sense of dread, I realized there was no right answer.

I stifled a sob. "HELP!" I screamed. "HELP!"

A crowd had collected along the top railing; a dozen or so wide-eyes faces stared back at me. It was futile. None of them could help. The car was rocking dangerously in the wind, threatening to spill over into the river. It would take time to get a proper crew on site to save us, especially with the strange mess of cars tossed about on the bridge, blocking the road... it would take too much time...

_Is this really happening?_ It felt like a nightmare, surreal and dreamlike. Hot tears burned my eyes. _No, not like this... I'm not ready to die..._

A blast of wind shook the car, and the cabbie cried out, just as terrified as I was.

I leaned out, hanging half-in, half-out of the window. "HELP US, PLEASE!" I shrieked at the top of my lungs, my voice cracking from the effort. "PLEASE!"

I heard the gasps of the crowd, but I didn't understand what was happening, not at first. I felt another burst of wind and assumed it was the weather again until I realized that it had come not from the side, but from above. I looked up.

The Angel gracefully dropped into view in front of me, floating in the air between the car and the bridge. His wings obscured the crowd, and I fell limp, clutching the car door as I stared at him in his full glory once again.

I gasped, nearly choking. His eyes widened with recognition as he flew closer, his mouth falling open.

Tears continued to roll freely down my cheeks. "War--" I started to cry out, still drunk and reckless with my words, but I stopped when he cut me off.

"_Sera_," he said sharply. I nodded dumbly, realizing my mistake. Breathing raggedly, I reached one hand towards him and leaned further out, hesitant. The car swayed in the wind once again, and I fell over, my torso hitting the bottom of the window hard. I was hanging halfway out of the cab, unbalanced and staring at the dark, looming water yet again, when I felt his hands take my arms. He gently lifted me until I got my balance, and I looked up, meeting his intense, unreadable gaze.

"I know you hate me," I whispered, gripping his hands tightly. "But please, _please_ help me."


	15. Chapter 13: Forgive and Forget

**A/N:** Burning up the keyboard! This ended up being a little longer than I expected. But finally, some more action! ha. Seriously, Warren should just stay away from bridges from here on.

As always, reviews make me happy. And motivated. ;)

* * *

**Chapter 13: Forgive and Forget**

_Warren_

I hadn't flown in weeks. After the incident at my parents' house over Christmas, and my general unease over my secret being unintentionally shared, I'd kept a low profile, opting to let the crimes and accidents of New York City happen in their own time. The media, who had regularly berated my superheroic actions and condemned me as a freak of nature, exploded with anger, claiming I had 'abandoned' my duties. Rich, eh? Damned if I do, damned if I don't.

Admittedly, a small fraction of me felt guilty, especially when I was treated to an interview with a sobbing, bereft family member on the evening news; however, the larger, more rational part of me didn't care. I wasn't contracted to save the world. I didn't get paid. Any charitable acts on my part were purely that – charity. And if I didn't feel like flying for a night – or two, or three, or twenty-four – then that was my prerogative.

Nevertheless, on the evening of February 9th, I felt twitchy, ready to get back into action. A premonition of what was to come? Maybe. I prefer to think of it as pure dumb luck on the part of one nosy, brown-haired woman.

I sailed effortlessly through the crisp night air, surveying the world below me. I'd thought that I would feel out of practice, that all the time off I'd taken would have atrophied my abilities. However, as I flew lower and ducked around the National Bank skyscraper, I felt wired, recharged, explosive. Full of unspent energy. Fresh. _Taking a break was a good idea in more ways than one_, I mused. Truthfully, I probably should have taken them more often.

Because not even I could fly fast enough to cover the entire city, I'd chosen to stake out the East side for the evening. I'd realized, after months of informal investigation, that the most trouble happened in the east. Blame it on something in the water, maybe, but I didn't have a solid explanation for the discrepancy. I'd had to spend more time there than anywhere else.

Sure enough, it wasn't long before I heard a familiar sound – screaming, crying, pleas for help and the sickening sound of metal crunching. Another car accident? I shuddered. Those were often the worst – sometimes I would arrive on the scene only to find a twisted hunk of metal, the person trapped inside either already dead or rapidly heading that direction. In those cases, there was nothing I could do.

I headed for the source, closing my eyes for concentration, letting my ears be my guide. The sound was coming from somewhere on my left, so I deftly rolled and turned that way, spreading my wings to their full length and letting the tailwind carry me.

My senses led me to a bridge, the Lawson, if memory served. I pulled up and hesitated, floating a safe distance up and away from human eyes. Ever since the mysterious death of the suicide jumper in early December, I'd felt a keen uneasiness around the structures. Remembering the way the metal cables had snapped without reason, latching onto the man in my arms... it wasn't a good association.

The Tremonte had been a land bridge, serving as a way to cross over the busy intersections below. Lawson bridged the river and was substantially higher. Easing downward, I surveyed the situation, my eyes widening when I saw the chaos below.

Cars were strewn about the bridge like a child's discarded toys, some pointing the wrong direction, some overturned or on their side, some halfway crashed through the metal support cables. It looked, on first glance, to be the single worst car pile-up in New York state history. _What could have caused all this?_ I wondered, watching as drivers and passengers fled from their cars, most running helter-skelter towards land. _Why are they running? What's happening?_

I flew closer. There was a small crowd gathered on the opposite side, almost directly in the center of the bridge, though one by one they began to scatter and flee. Looking more carefully, I saw a yellow cab, tangled and hanging precariously in the cables, rocking back and forth in the wind. _Oh, shit,_ I thought. _I wonder if anyone is still in--_

"HELP! PLEASE HELP!"

My thought was answered even before I could finish it. Someone was trapped in that dangling car, a young woman. She was hanging out the side, screaming, terrified. Without hesitation, I dropped down.

When I was closer, just above the car, I eased down, hoping my wings wouldn't cause too much of a disturbance. The cab was moving as if on a fulcrum, and I realized a little too late that the strong downwind I could cause might send it plummeting over the side. Slowly, carefully, I lowered until I was hovering in between the side of the cab and the bridge. All I could see was a dark head of hair, long, shiny brunette strands that looked awfully familiar...

She looked up.

_SERA._

I sucked in a sharp breath – to describe the feeling as shocked would be to do it a grave injustice. I froze while time, and my heart, stopped for a few long seconds. Sera Slone was hanging out of the cab, only moments away from certain death. And because I'd answered her cries, it was up to me to save her.

Her eyes grew comically wide, and I could see her knuckles tightening on the door. "War--"

"_Sera_," I said sharply, cutting her off. She started, clamping her mouth closed as if she understood her error, and nodded, silent. Her tears rolled freely, sending ugly black smears of mascara under her eyes and down her cheeks. She swallowed, reaching one hand out towards me, leaning further away from the car, and I could practically hear her silent screams: _help me, please, help me..._

A strong gust of wind rocked the car, the metal creaking as the weight began shifting more towards the back. She lost her balance and clumsily fell forward, her legs kicking around inside, head banging against the side of the car. She was upside down, precariously close to pitching out of the car altogether and into the cold, ominous water below.

I didn't think twice: I swiftly reached out, grabbing her arms and pulling her upright, helping her get her balance. Her breath came in short, frantic bursts; half-sobs. As I righted her, I got a strong, pungent whiff of alcohol – whiskey. _She's drunk,_ I suddenly realized. And not just drunk, but absolutely smashed... for some reason, the thought of straight-laced Sera Slone knocking back shots of whiskey made me want to laugh.

She quickly brought me back to reality, however, with her next statement.

"I know you hate me," she said, her voice nasal and quivering from the tears. She held onto my hands, squeezing them with an intensity I didn't know she was capable of. "But please, _please_ help me."

_She thinks you hate her._

_Well, don't you?_

Looking into her terrified brown eyes, what little anger I'd been holding on for the past weeks melted. A little, tiny _fraction_ of my conscience had whispered that I should just leave her, to punish her for what she'd done, but I couldn't even entertain the thought. I didn't – I couldn't – hate her. And especially not when she was desperate, clinging to me and sobbing for her life. I'd never intentionally abandoned anyone I'd come to help, and I wasn't about to start now.

"Sera," I said, keeping my voice steady to try and calm her. "Climb out a little more. Reach for me. Put your arms around my neck."

"I'm scared," she whispered.

I'd heard that nervous comment countless times before, usually in reference to heights, and I gave her the same answer I gave them all. "It's okay. You'll only be in the air for a few seconds."

She sniffed loudly and gave a tentative nod. She moved her hands up my forearms, biceps, shoulders – she was afraid to let go entirely, it seemed, and instead kept a constant grip on me to steady herself. Meanwhile, the cab driver, who had been moaning in Spanish the entire time, groaned loudly, turning to look back. His jaw dropped when he saw me, and he immediately added his two cents.

"_Socorro!_" he cried out, frantically pulling on his seatbelt. His motions were beginning to rock the car, shit. "_Ayúdeme, por favor!_"

I'd taken Spanish in high school, but hadn't used it since – I'd never had the need to, until now. I racked my brain, trying to think of how to respond. So much for expensive private education.

"_No se preocupe,_" I said slowly. Had I even said that right? Fuck it, I didn't have time to mentally recap my old Spanish lessons. "I'll get you next."

"_¡Mí primero! Por favor!_"

Well, I remembered that '_primero_' meant first, so I assumed he wished for me to leave Sera in the car and tend to him. What a gentleman. Sera grabbed my shoulders, her fingertips digging into my collarbone.

"Sir," I said, trying to speak evenly so he could understand. "I need to get her first." To further prove my point, I slowly moved my hand to Sera's waist, getting ready to move her closer so I could pull her out.

"No, no!" He was clambering in the driver's seat, frantic. Sera let out a little whimper as the car creaked. "Angel!" he shouted over and over. "Angel!"

"Hang on!" I said, exasperated. "_Stay_. One at a time. I just need to--"

"And so it goes." I was interrupted by a new voice – one so powerful, so commanding, that the three of us froze in our respective places – me in the air, Sera with her arms extended on my shoulders, the cabbie hanging out of the driver's side window. I slowly turned to look over my shoulder, not believing my eyes.

A tall, thin man stood on the bridge behind us, clad in full-on regalia that would have made Superman proud – a full bodysuit, crimson-red, with strategically installed pieces of armor covering his chest, shoulders, boots, and more vulnerable areas. He wore a matching helmet that curved around his face, obscuring all his features except the mouth and the eyes: light, piercing blue; unflinching, unwavering. He was also wearing a lavender cape, of all things, the rich fabric billowing and flowing with the wind.

He stood alone, holding his ground in a an empty clearing of asphalt devoid of cars. No one spoke for several seconds. Then the mysterious man continued. "They're always so ungrateful, don't you think? They're the weak ones, the helpless, the sick and injured... the _un-evolved_. And you come along, ready to help, and they treat you like scum, try to order you around, even as you save their sorry lives... What is that old saying, you know – the one about beggars not being choosers?"

"What?" Sera whispered. She cowered down, uneasy and further frightened.

I shared the sentiment._ What the hell is happening? Who is this crackpot? Why is he here?_ I didn't even know how to answer his question. However, it seemed that didn't matter, because he had _plenty_ to say.

"But I must admit, I find it funny, and a bit _pathetic_, to see one of our kind wasting his talents to help humans. The Avenging Angel, sacrificing himself on behalf of the citizens of New York, bringing salvation to those in need... though it _is_ poetic, I'll give you that."

I found my voice. "Who the fuck are you?" I snarled.

"Not such an angelic mouth, I see." The man smirked, his lips curling up with distaste. "Perhaps you're not as innocent or altruistic as you appear."

"Who is he?" Sera whispered.

"I have no earthly fucking clue," I muttered. "But we're getting out of here." I turned back to her, wondering if I could possibly carry the both of them at the same time. Looking at the cabbie, I doubted it. The man easily weighed 300, maybe even 350, and at about 5'9" and curvy, Sera herself wasn't exactly a toothpick. _The two of them together probably weigh over 500 pounds... I don't know if I can handle that much weight..._

"Angel." The man's voice carried through the air behind me, the rich baritone filling the empty skies. "Why do you do it? Why do you waste your time with them?"

I ignored him. I'd have to stick with one at a time, I decided, because it was too risky to try them both. "Sera," I said quietly. "I'm going to put my arms around you and lift you out. Okay?" She nodded, her eyes darting towards the river below us. "Don't look down," I chided her. "Look at me."

I heard a familiar creak, a low, inhuman groan, followed by a CLINK. The sound, once again, of metal bending and breaking.

_The cables!_

_Deja vu..._ I looked up, horrified to see one of the supports flying down towards, me, snapping like a whip. I had to let go of Sera, pushing her away and diving down to keep from getting hit. The cable fell into the river with a loud splash. Sera and the cab driver fell back into the car, screaming.

"Pardon me," the man said sarcastically, and I turned to face him. "I forgot – you've been through this one before. I'm usually much more original than that."

"What?" I asked, a feeling of dread rising in my chest.

He merely smiled, holding his hands out, palms facing heavenward. He gently bent his fingers up in a beckoning manner, and I watched in horror as two of the mangled trucks behind him rose into the air. "This should be a new challenge for you," he said casually. "Though I apologize, I couldn't decide on just one. Do you ever have that problem in your line of work, Angel? Who do you save when you only get one chance?" Then, with a flick of his wrists, the cars flew towards me, crashing through the cables and showering us all with sparks.

I dove out of the way. _Metal. He controls metal! _The thoughts tumbled out, unorganized but clear – the man was a mutant, a seriously pissed-off one at that, and for whatever reason, I was his new target. _Of course. He's been following me, he's the one I've felt in the shadows... he was the reason the man was pulled from my arms at Tremonte. But why? What have I ever done to him?_

I didn't have time to think about that. All I knew was I had to get out, and fast, before he sent one of those cars crashing straight into my chest. I started to fly off, to get away as fast as inhumanly possible, when I remembered.

Sera.

Shit! I turned and headed directly for the cab. We would have to make this fast, and it looked like carrying them both was my only option. Luckily, she had regained her footing inside the car and was already leaning out, frantically waving her arms. I flew closer. "Just grab onto me," I said, breathless. "We have to get out of here!"

The cab driver leaned out of his window, frantically reaching for me, shouting words I couldn't understand. They were both grabbing, fighting for help. I took Sera's arm, determined to pull her out first and make sure she was secure, but the man was insistent, pushing her arms off, wrangling to be the first out. "Stop!" I shouted at him. "If you'd fucking calm down, I could get you both out!"

"You and I have a lot in common," the mutant called to my back. "More than you realize, Angel, I'm sure."

"Whatever," I muttered to myself, wrestling away from the cabbie's ham-handed grip.

"You and I should talk," he continued, either oblivious or impervious to the fact that I was trying to ignore him. "I think you'd be interested in what I have to say."

_If I'm not listening now, what makes you think I'm going to listen later?_ God, this guy was a nut job. I finally began to understand, after all these years, why humans harbored such unnatural fear of something they didn't understand – mutations. This man not only possessed a frighteningly powerful supernatural ability, but also the sadistic, evil mind to use it for all the wrong reasons.

Suddenly, the cab began to move away from me, lifting up into the air, straining against the cables that held it precariously in place. "How silly of me," the mutant called out to me, dark humor lacing his tone. "Of course, you're too distracted to listen right now. Allow me to help."

The next few seconds were a jumble: the cab lifting out of reach, Sera's terrified expression as she was pulled out of my arms, and then the shocking, heavy weight of the cab driver as he threw himself out of the car and into my chest. I fell back from the impact, gasping as the breath was knocked from my lungs. My wings strained to correct our trajectory and keep us from spinning out of control.

"Ah, I see you've chosen which one to save," the mutant said. "So I'll do you the favor of discarding the other."

With another flick of the wrist, he sent the cab – and Sera – flying, speeding away from the bridge like a Nolan Ryan fastball.

**xxxxx **

My father was fond of reminding me that in life, I'd be forced to make hard decisions. Whether it was choosing the right school, or breaking up with a girl I didn't love, or investing in the right mutual fund, he'd counseled me on the necessity of trusting your instincts while acting as quickly as possible. "Time will become more important and less abundant as you get older," I could remember him saying after he'd come back from a particularly brutal business meeting with his colleagues. They'd raked him over the coals for buying out a smaller steel mill that was on the verge of bankruptcy, but he'd made the purchase quickly so that the anxious factory workers wouldn't be laid off. "You have to get smart, and get quick, about making choices that are right for you, and right for others. A month, week, day, even a _minute_ can make a difference."

At the time, of course, I'd rolled my eyes and pushed his wisdom aside like a typical know-it-all teenager. But as usual, his words came full circle: sometimes you had to act fast and deal with any consequences later. I had a choice: save the man, the sure thing, or try and save Sera, whose situation was looking dire. Which choice could I live with?

I didn't even hesitate. I threw the cab driver onto the bridge, not bothering to see where he landed. _Consider yourself saved_,_ you son of a bitch, _I thought grimly as I took off. The mutant had tossed the cab towards the middle of the river, where it was considerably darker, but I could see the shadow of the cab as it arced and fell towards the water. I wasn't going to get there in time – it would hit the surface before I could pull her out – so I just prayed the impact wouldn't kill her.

The cab hit with a spectacular splash, the displaced water cascading high into the air. Because several of the windows had been open, the car sank rapidly, and was over halfway submerged by the time I reached it. I dove down, hovering above the sinking mess, calling Sera's name. Nothing. It was dark, I could see no sign of her amid the bubbling water, and the car was already too far down for me to reach inside. Diving in was a bad idea, as I didn't have time or even a place to knock the water off my wings. I'd learned years ago during a thunderstorm that soaking wet feathers were heavy and completely unsuitable for flight.

"Damn it, Sera," I shouted. "Goddamnit, don't you do this..."

Sucking in my breath, I straightened my body until I was horizontal, parallel to the water. I lowered as far as I could go, my wings straining to keep me from pitching in after her. The very tips were already smacking against the water with each powerful flap, the feathers splashing little drops with each strike... I was too close, this wasn't going to work...

Determined, I stuck one arm in the water, reaching and grabbing as far as I could reach. Nothing. _No, no, no... Come on, Sera..._

My hand brushed against something solid and moving. Her arm! "Aaah!" I yelled, sweat beading up on my forehead. I managed to get a firm grip, pulling up. Seconds later, Sera's head emerged from the water, her hair soaked and covering her face. She coughed and sputtered, wheezing for breath as I lifted her completely from the water.

I wasn't sure how conscious or coherent she would be after that little trip, but as I got her into proper flying position – one arm under the knees, one under the back – she recognized me. One good sign, at least.

"Warren," she mumbled behind the thick, wet plaster of hair. "Warren..."

"Ssssh," I said. I glanced behind me. The bridge was far behind us, nothing but a small line of lights dotting the sky. In the middle of the river, we were alone, but I didn't know for how long. Would the mutant follow me out here? _Could_ he? I didn't want to find out. "I'm getting you out of here."

She pushed her hair back and began to cry again, burying her face in my neck and wrapping her arms tightly around me. She was breathing hard, so hard, that I feared she might hyperventilate. "Thank you," she whispered. "Thank you, thank you, thank you..."

"Don't thank me just yet. We're still not on land."

I took us nearly a mile away, finding an empty street to safely land on without any cars or pedestrians with prying eyes. As my feet touched the asphalt, I gently lowered my arms and set her down. Her elbows were tightly locked around my neck as if frozen, and I pried at her, encouraging her to let go. As soon as I loosened her grip, however, she fell down and hit the street in an ungainly heap. She grabbed her chest and closed her eyes, her breathing still coming in short, staccato gasps.

I wasn't sure what to do. "Sera," I said. "Are you okay?" _Well, I think that answer's pretty obvious, Worthington. Why don't you ask her if she had a nice swim while you're at it?_

She pushed her wet hair out of her face and shrugged, not speaking.

"Are you hurt?" I asked. Another shrug. I said nothing, knowing that there _were_ no words that would help matters at the moment. She sat on the road for several long minutes, silently shivering. "Sera," I said again.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, and I furrowed my brow. "I'll... I'll call someone. Someone to come get me. You don't have to stay." She pulled her phone out of her pocket, her visibly trembling fingers fumbling with the buttons. I pursed my lips together. _You just begged me to help you, and now you want me to leave already?_

She dropped the phone onto the pavement, crying out in frustration when her hands wouldn't cooperate. I wanted to look away; watching her unravel felt intrusive and wrong. She would be embarrassed at her behavior, I knew, once she'd sobered up. I sighed, squatting down next to her.

"You're drunk, Sera," I said. "I can still smell it on your breath. Where do you live? I'll just take you home."

"No," she mumbled. "No, no, I'll call. I'll be fine. Go on, go home... you need to go, before someone sees you..." She was rambling, irrational, a far cry from the calmly confident girl from class who'd busted my balls every time I tried to get out of working on the project. She grabbed the phone and began pressing the buttons again, looking confused at the black, unresponsive screen.

"You were just submerged in the river," I said, taking it from her hand and examining the outer casing. Water dripped from the corners, falling to the ground and freezing on impact. Yeah, it was a lost cause. "I doubt your phone is going to work."

"I can walk. The subway..." She crawled to her feet and immediately stumbled, her unstable condition belying her words.

"No, you can't," I said, grabbing her arms to prevent another fall. She'd already ripped her skirt and scraped up her knees from that first tumble, and there were small nicks and cuts all over her bare arms, likely from the car accident. Looking closer, I could see a large, swollen bump just beyond the hairline on her temple. I wondered if she had a concussion. She was certainly behaving strangely enough. "Where do you live?"

"I..." she trailed off, and I braced myself for another crying jag. She covered her face, shoulders trembling. "I can't _think_ right now..."

In the distance, I heard the motor of a car, coming from far down the street. Shit. It sounded like it was heading this way, though it was still too far to tell. Nevertheless, I knew we couldn't stand out in the street for much longer. She was right, sooner or later someone was bound to come along and see me standing with her and talking, something I _never_ did with any of the people I saved. It was too open, too risky here. I needed to leave, get out of sight. For both our sakes.

I sighed, assessing Sera's sorry state. _She's drunk, disjointed, soaking wet, terrified, sobbing, bleeding, and might have a concussion. So what, you think you can leave her alone on the street, just like that? Leave her to call her friend or a cab or 911?_

I hung my head, already knowing the answer to that. I couldn't leave her... what would happen after I took off? It wasn't wise for _any_ woman in New York to take to the streets by herself, much less an intoxicated, incoherent one. She could be attacked again, or fall unconscious on the streets, or get hit by a car...

In one swift motion, I pulled her into my arms again. Her body was soft, limp, heavy. And cold, alarmingly so. "All right," I said, a little reluctant. "I have to get you – _and_ myself – out of here and somewhere safe. So since you can't tell me where you live, then we're going to my place." Without listening to her alarmed protests, I leaped up and back into the sky.

**xxxxx**

I'd forgotten that the atmosphere became substantially colder the higher one flew. I'd gotten used to the briskness thousands of feet above the earth, but a human, a normal person? Especially one that happened to be completely drenched? I could only imagine how miserable and painful the experience must have been. By the time I landed on the wide balcony of the penthouse, Sera's thin shirt had frozen through along with thick clumps of her hair, twisted and frosted like bizarre dreadlocks. She looked like an old rag doll that had been thrown out in the snow and forgotten.

The inside of the apartment was warm, hitting us like a welcome wave as I took her through the door. I set her down on the couch, cringing when she collapsed on her side, shivering. What to do first? Call a doctor? Give her something hot to drink? Make her take a warm shower?

"Sera," I said, squatting down in front of her. I grabbed the thick, decorative afghan that hung off the back cushions. My mother's meticulous interior decorating, while impeccable, was often a bit much for my tastes. She'd insisted the soft, intricate afghan added just the right splash of color to the room, but I'd always thought it was kind of pointless and a hassle to re-fold. Until now.

"Look at me," I said, throwing the afghan over her trembling body. It was knitted from thick, pliant wool, and I hoped it would help thaw out her icy skin. Her eyes slowly opened. "You can't go to sleep. You might have a concussion."

"I'm fine," she whispered.

I stood up, pacing. "You're _not_ fine. I'm going to call our doctor, all right? He'll come over and check you out." I hadn't seen Dr. Davidson in years, but my parents had gone to him for regular check-ups since before I was born, and I knew I'd be able to coax him out for a house call. He would never turn a Worthington request down, and he would ask far fewer questions than an ER.

"No," she said. "No, I'm fine. I want to go home."

"You need to see a doctor first."

"I don't have money to pay him." Her voice was small, almost tinny, and she curled her knees in closer, tucking the blanket up under her chin. Her hair was starting to melt, fat drops dripping onto the suede cushions. Oh, my mother would kill me.

I suppressed the urge to roll my eyes. "Well, I do. I'll take care of it."

"Warren--"

"So I'm going to call him," I interrupted, "and in the meantime, you go shower. I don't want him to see you... well, like _this_, because I don't even know how we'd begin to explain it. And you need to get warm anyway. I'll find you something to wear."

She didn't move. "Sera," I said, "Can you get up?"

Interesting how our roles had reversed. She had spent months coaxing me to do her bidding, relentless in her quest for a good grade. She'd had an unprecedented amount of patience for my slacking and bad attitude, far more than most other people I'd known, save for my mother. As much as I'd sometimes hated being on the receiving end of her admonishments, I disliked being on the giving end even more. It didn't feel _right_.

"Why didn't you let me die?" She finally looked up, craning her head to meet my gaze.

I blinked. Well, that was certainly _not_ a response I had expected. 'Yes', 'No', or 'Maybe' were more along the lines of what I'd been thinking. "What?"

She stared at me with glassy, watery eyes, and I became keenly aware of my wings fluttering up and down, expanding in and out with each agitated step I took. "You didn't have to save me," she said dully. "Why did you do it?"

"Why did I do it?" I repeated. What the hell kind of question was that? "You needed help. I help people. It's a pretty standard equation."

"But... but you _hate_ me. And wouldn't it have made it easier? If I was gone, you wouldn't have to worry about anyone else finding out..."

"What?" I asked sharply. "You thought I would _let you die_ because of that?"

"I didn't know," she said, shrinking down into the afghan.

"Jesus Christ, Sera," I snapped, stalking to the other side of the room. Did she really think I was that terrible of a person? _That_ vindictive? "Thanks. That makes me feel fantastic."

"Did it never cross your mind?"

"No!" I practically shouted, though I felt that slight tinge of guilt, and not just for lying.

"Really, Warren?" She had fixed her focus on the chair across the room, her words faint. "Really?"

I exhaled, leaning against the fireplace mantle to calm down. "Fine. Briefly. For a fraction of a second, the thought – _just_ the thought, not the urge – occurred to me." I looked back over my shoulder, ready to gauge her reaction.

She actually _smiled_ at that, though it was faint. "At least you're honest."

I crossed my arms. "But I'm not a monster. I could have never, ever done that and lived with myself."

She sniffled, shedding the blanket and pushing herself up into a sitting position. Her thin blouse had melted too, sticking to her skin I places I knew I shouldn't be looking. "Who was that man on the bridge?" she asked, serious once again. "And why did he attack us? And you?"

I averted my eyes. "You know as much as I do," I said grimly. "I've never seen him before, but I think he's been following me."

"Why?"

"Again. You know as much as I do." I leaned forward, grimacing as I stretched. My shoulders and back were aching, probably from the strain of trying to pull Sera from the water. "But I have a feeling that's not the last I'll see of him." As I straightened up, I nodded to the blanket in what I hope was a casual manner. "You should, um, put that back on. You need to get warm."

She automatically draped it over her shoulders, pulling her legs in and resting her chin on one knee. She was always folding her body up, I noticed, as if retreating into a protective shell. _At least she's sobered up now_, I thought. Although it would have been hard _not_ to, after what she'd been through. I'd splashed cold water from the faucet on my face before to clear my drink-addled thoughts, so I couldn't imagine what a dunk in the river followed by a ten-minute freezing cold air dry would do.

"I've never been so scared in my entire life," she said in a faraway voice. "I thought... I thought I was going to die."

She wiped under her eyes, and I realized she was tearing up again. She sucked in her lips in an effort not to cry, unsuccessfully, then gave a shaky laugh. "So that makes twice, then, that I've been saved by mutants. I'm starting to think that maybe the media's got it all wrong. We shouldn't be scared of you." She smiled at her light sarcasm.

I shrugged, sitting down on the loveseat. I refused to meet her eyes. "You were just as scared as anyone else would be when you caught me in here that night," I said, staring out the windows of the balcony doors. The moon was nearly full, hanging low in the sky, surrounded by skycrapers.

She paused to think about that, her face grave. "I wasn't scared of _you_, Warren," she said quietly. "I was scared of the implications of what I'd done. Of how you'd react, not as a mutant, but as a person... as my friend."

Friends? She had said that once before, but I'd assumed then that she was only using the term to try and guilt me into calming down. "Not scared of me? I don't believe that." I snorted. "What did you say earlier? 'Really, Sera, really?'"

"Okay. I was a _little_ scared." She folded her arms, matching my stance, and then her expression softened. "But just for a moment... as you said."

"And at least you're honest." I sighed, running my fingers through my hair. "Well, it's over and done with," I said crisply. "And obviously you haven't told anyone, so..." I trailed off, unsure where I was going with that.

"Do you forgive me?"

I had to hand it to her. What better time or way to plead forgiveness than when you're at your absolute most vulnerable – tearful, shivering, injured, and shaking from a near-death experience. What man with a conscience could possibly shoot that down?

"Yeah," I finally said after a considerable amount of thought, a little surprised at how much I meant it. "I forgive you."

"Thank you," she said quietly. "Thank you for everything."

"You already thanked me. Several times." I stood up, feeling a little embarrassed at showing my softer side. "I'm calling Dr. Davidson. There's a shower down the hall. Towels and soap should be out. Can you make it there?"

She nodded. "I think so." Standing up, she shuffled towards the back hallway, still wrapped tightly in the blanket. Before disappearing around the corner, she turned back to me, holding on to the antique cherry side table for support. "Warren... why are you being so nice to me?"

It was tempting to be insulted by her questions again, but the truth was, she had a point. Why _was_ I being nice to her? I didn't have to bring her back here, I could have dropped her off at the police station or a fire department, let them take care of the doctoring and showering and unfreezing and rehydrating. For her, I'd gone above and beyond what I'd done for any of the hundreds of people I'd saved in the past year.

I didn't want to think about that answer too hard, however, because I was afraid of what it might mean.

"Despite what you keep saying, Sera, I don't hate you," I said. "And like I said... I forgive you."

"You can forgive someone their trespasses and still dislike them as a person. Why the sudden change in heart?" I raised an eyebrow at yet another bold question. Yeah, she was definitely sober now. She pushed the issue further. "You've never liked me much. And then you told me, that day in class, that you wanted me to shut my fucking mouth and leave you alone. You made it clear you wanted nothing to do with me ever again."

"I remember what I said." I didn't feel like getting into that argument. I walked away, heading to the kitchen to make some coffee. I had a feeling we'd need it. "And forget it. It's not relevant right now. Go get warm."

She nodded, retreating back in the hallway.

**xxxxx**

"Can you tell me your full name?"

Sera, who had managed to look much more alive and _not_ like a soggy corpse by the time Dr. Davidson arrived, nodded solemnly. She'd showered, washed and dried her hair, dressed in fresh clothes, and drank a bit of water. Thankfully, all this had returned some pallor to her complexion.

"Sera Marie Slone," she answered. She wiped her hands on her robe, the only outward indication that she was nervous. Though I trusted Dr. Davidson, I knew we had to play this just right.

I hadn't had much to give her to wear – in the back of my underwear drawer, I'd found an old pair of ladies' cotton shorts, pink with green stripes – they'd been a part of Candy's spare pajamas, from back in the days when she regularly slept in my bed. They were small, but were pretty much the only option for bottom halves that I had. I'd found one of my older, smaller t-shirts to use as a top, so that wasn't a problem. I'd also given her one of my large robes, which completely drowned her, but helped keep her warm.

"Can you tell me the date?" Dr. Davidson asked. He was all business, despite looking a little bleary-eyed behind his black-rimmed glasses. His hair had gone completely white since I'd last seen him, and I could pick out a whole new set of lines and wrinkles around his brows and jowls. _How long has it been?_ I wondered. _Where has the time gone?_

"February 9, 2007," she answered. Then she gave him a sweet smile. "Though it is after midnight now... so technically it's February 10, I suppose."

He nodded. "I'm going to check your pupils," he said, holding up a small flashlight. He held up one finger with his other hand. "Focus on my finger. Follow it with your eyes."

I silently retreated into the kitchen to grab the three of us some of the coffee I'd made. Dr. Davidson had been less than thrilled when I'd called – no surprise, considering it was 2:30 in the morning – but he had agreed to come out when I'd explained that one, my poor female friend was injured but couldn't afford to go to the ER, and two, I'd wanted to keep things as low-key as possible. I let him assume that she'd been with me all night drinking, as that seemed a pretty believable story. Thankfully, he seemed pretty cavalier about her injuries, assuring us first that she needed no stitches and that the bump on her head was purely superficial.

I grabbed three mugs and walked back into the den, wiggling my shoulders uncomfortably. I'd had to do a rush wrap job to get the wings back under control before he arrived, and I'd not done such a stellar job. The bandage was pulling on one of the lead feathers, and it hurt in the same annoying way a single hair hurts when it's snagged. But no matter how I squirmed, I couldn't get it unstuck.

"Can you tell me what happened, Sera?" Dr. Davidson asked. He lifted up her chin, moving her head all around, though I couldn't tell what he was looking for.

"I... I fell," she answered simply. "There were these stairs outside the club, and I don't know what happened, I guess I slipped..." She pointed to her scraped-up legs. "I was wearing a skirt, and I banged my knees on the way down..."

"And your head," I interjected. We'd agreed to concoct a story involving a fall on some concrete stairs, near a railing – we figured those components would at least explain her various scrapes, cuts and bruises. "I heard the thump. Scared me half to death." I held out the mugs. "Coffee?"

The doctor held up a flat palm. "No thanks, son. If I had any now I'd be up for the rest of the night. Or day, as it were." Sera, however, accepted a mug and held it in her hands for warmth. Dr. Davidson turned to her. "Any dizziness? Disorientation? Nausea?"

"No, not now. I was a little confused right after it happened... but I was also a little, um, intoxicated. I feel okay now." She glanced over at me, taking a tiny sip from the mug.

He rose to his feet, pulling out a pad and scribbling something on it. "I don't believe you have a concussion, Sera, but if you feel any of those symptoms in the next few days, you'll need to go a hospital and have one of the docs check you out. In the meantime, I'm giving you a script for some extra-strength ibuprofen. I imagine you're going to be pretty sore in the morning. It'll help with the muscle aches."

"Thanks," she said softly, taking the slip of paper from his hands.

"Sure." He eyed me as he slipped the pad back into his black travel bag. "Warren, it was nice to see you, but I have to say I hope to see you in my _office_ sometime soon. You haven't been in for a check-up in years. I thought you'd dropped off the face of the earth." He smiled, his mustache broadening into a thick, straight line, like a stiff white comb. "It's prudent for people – even young people like you folks – to get a physical exam every year."

"I know," I said. "And I will, soon..." Lie.

I walked him to the door and wrote him a check for his troubles. When I came back into the den, Sera hadn't moved. She still held the mug, her head tilted as if in thought. She looked up as I walked in.

"Does it hurt?" she asked.

"Does what hurt?"

She set the mug on a coaster and held her arms out to the side, hesitant. Her face blushed as she slowly flapped them up and down, like wings, before drawing them in behind her back. "Your wings, when you bind them. It seems like it would be uncomfortable."

"It is," I answered shortly.

"What do you hold them down with?"

"Bandages," I said.

"Like... athlete's tape?" She looked horrified at that, and I had to smile. Sticky tape on feathers? Not such a good idea.

"No. Like Ace bandages. The reusable ones."

She nodded, processing that. "That must be hard to wrap around yourself," she said. "Wouldn't they stretch out?"

"Yeah, and yeah. I usually have to throw them away after a few uses." God, it felt _strange_ to talk to someone about my secret life – to let her in on the little issues and idiosyncracies of being a mutant superhero.

"When did it happen?" She sat up a little straighter, that familiar, curious look on her face. It was the same way she'd looked when we had discussed mutants months ago, after she'd been saved by the man with the claws. Not judging, not disgusted, just... curious. "When did they grow in?"

"I don't... I don't think we should get into this. Not tonight," I said. I felt uneasy and a little vulnerable, to be honest. And the fact that I was kind of enjoying this unheard-of type of open conversation bothered me. Maybe I had made a mistake. _I shouldn't have brought her home. She already knows too much, and this is definitely not helping matters._

Or... was it? As I'd said, it was strange to be casually talking about my wings, but it also felt... good. Freeing. A release of pent-up pressure, like air from an overinflated tire.

"No?" she asked, and I was relieved that the old, strong-willed Sera had come back. I didn't like seeing her as a whimpering, trembling mess. "Are you sending me home, or can I ask again tomorrow?"

"You're awfully cheeky, considering you almost died two hours ago," I said pointedly. "Enough. You can stay here. There's an extra bedroom down the hall, next to the bathroom. Go to bed, Sera."

She leaned against the ball of the couch, looking down the dark hallway. "You're letting me stay here?"

"Well, you could always call Jonathan to pick you up," I said. "In fact, I'll lend you my phone, if you have his number memorized. That would be good for a laugh."

She set her jaw, not amused. I shrugged. "I figured you wouldn't ride in another cab, and it's not safe for you to take the subway this late. And frankly, I'm too tired to take you home, either driving or flying."

She nodded, not meeting my eyes. "You're probably right," she said. "Okay. Thanks."

"Stop thanking me."

"Sorry... it's a force of habit, you know, from all the other times I've had my life saved." She stood up and stretched, then grimaced. "Oh, sweet Jehovah, my back... I see why he gave me a prescription for some painkillers now..." She looked up at me, disbelief etched across her face. "How do you do this every night, Warren?"

"For starters, I wasn't trapped inside a crumpled car thrown half a mile into the freezing river," I said. "And secondly, I don't do it _every_ night."

"Right... so I'll see you in the morning?" She straightened up, sliding out of the robe I'd given her. Candy had been a tall, thin girl with a lingerie model's body – tiny waist, slender but rounded hips and thighs, impressive rack. Sera barely fit into her old shorts, the material tight and taut against her more considerable curves. I swallowed, wondering why I found it so appealing.

"Yeah," I said casually. I headed for my suite upstairs, and she limped out of the room towards the hallway. I hated myself for doing it, but I stopped halfway up the steps, turning around to watch her leave the room. She never wore tight clothes, she was far too conservative for that, but damn if they didn't look good on her, hugging her hips and ass in all the right places...

"Jesus Christ," I muttered, running into the bathroom and turning on the faucet. I splashed some cold water on my face. "What the hell am I doing?"


	16. Chapter 14: Home Sweet Home

**A/N:** And here you go. I really enjoyed working on this chapter... I dunno, I think I tend to prefer Sera's optimism and practical thinking as opposed to Warren's angst and anger. :) But maybe that's why they balance each other out so well. I also like that he's finally loosening up a bit. The kid was getting on my nerves for awhile. ;)

Hmm, what else. Oh, I'm calling Warren's dad "Ken", FYI. Since Kenneth is their middle name, I assumed the second Warren Worthington would have had to go by something else. So Grandpa is Warren, Dad is Ken, and our Angel is Warren again. Make sense? Whew.

Read on. Hope you enjoy it as much as I liked writing it. And as always, reviews in my inbox make me a happy clam. ;)

* * *

**Chapter 14: Home Sweet Home**

_Sera_

I'd long ago lost the ability – and the desire, really – to sleep in. As a teenager, I'd regularly stay zonked out until well past noon, which was also well past my parents' patience. Most weekends my father would throw my door open around 12:30, march in my room, and announce that I was wasting my life away in bed and it was past time for me to get up and get something accomplished.

However, after college, that changed. Adult life simply had too many _responsibilities_. As a teacher, I'd had papers to grade, tests and lesson plans to create, parent-teacher meetings to prepare for, student activities to help plan and chaperon... all on top of my duties as a live-in fiancee to Nick. I'd somehow learned to feel guilty sleeping past 8:00 on the weekends, like I was, as my father had said, wasting my time when there was so much to be done. There were times I'd wake up shortly before eight, wishing to sleep just a few minutes longer but unable to because of my endlessly running mind.

However, I guess a near-death experience and a miraculous rescue were enough to change all that.

I woke up to a room filled with late-morning light, awash in the brilliant rays of sun coming through the two tall sets of windows on the far wall. I kept my eyes closed, snuggling further into the covers. The bed was soft and plush, cocooning and conforming perfectly to my body. I was comfortable, _so_ comfortable, that I didn't want to move... just a little while longer, that's all that I needed... I shifted under the thick comforter, twisting my body away from the light, trying to squeeze out those last few minutes of reprieve...

And then howled in pain.

My eyes snapped open, and I clapped my hand over my mouth as I remembered where I was. I was _not_ at home in my apartment, alone and whole and only a little bit hungover from a rowdy girls' night out with Randi. I was in a strange bed in a strange room with a strange, sharp pain emanating from every muscle in my torso, making it difficult to breathe, let alone move. I blinked, letting my heart rate calm down. Warren. I was in Warren's penthouse, in the spare bedroom. And last night, I'd almost been killed.

Taking a deep breath, I slowly pushed myself into a sitting position. My stomach muscles screamed, my back ached, and as I wiggled my feet, I noticed with some trepidation that my legs felt stiff and sore, too. Painkillers, what had the doctor said about painkillers? He'd given me a prescription, but obviously I hadn't had a chance to get it filled yet. I whimpered, slowly rolling out of bed and easing into a standing position.

I limped into the hall, squinting in the bright light. Which way was the main den, where we had come in last night? Left? I headed that way, my feet dragging against the polished wood floors. I held on to the wall for support, afraid that if I fell, I'd also take out one of the expensive-looking vases and sculptures displayed on shelves and side tables throughout the hall, or even knock one of the paintings off the wall. Warren had said his mother decorated the place, and from the looks of it, Mrs. Worthington must have loved art. Really, really pricey art.

I sniffed the air. I'd just gotten a whiff of something from the kitchen, something sweet and warm, like the inside of a bakery. Was Warren cooking? I hobbled down the hall, following the scent.

I came to the living room, where my clothes from the previous night – dirty and destroyed – were on the coffee table, along with my phone. The kitchen was directly off of the den to the right, so I eased over, walking through the door.

Warren stood in the kitchen, his bare back to me – and his wings, free and loose, looming on either side of his body like flowing sculptures. I knew I should have gone ahead and introduced my presence, maybe cleared my throat or said, "Good morning" or even knocked on the door frame, but I couldn't. I stared at him – at his wings, really – scarcely able to believe my eyes.

They were, well, they were _beautiful._ Pristine white, with full feathers sprouting out from the juncture where they met his shoulder blade, tapering all the way to each tip. In the two instances I'd seen Warren with his wings out – both the initial discovery and last night – they'd been in almost constant movement, thus impossible to study. I wasn't sure if he even realized it, but I'd noticed last night how the appendages fluttered in and out, up and down as he spoke. As if gesturing, the way people did with their hands and arms. When he was angry, they extended out, stiff and full, reminding me of the way a cat bristled when upset. When he was calm, they folded back behind him, tucked carefully out of the way.

_They're huge. How does he hide them so well? How tight must those bandages be?_

I leaned against the door frame, still watching. He was clad in a loose pair of dangerously low jeans, but barefoot and shirtless. Probably more comfortable that way, I imagined, considering how much time he spent bound. His hair had been mussed and tangled last night when we'd gotten back (though certainly nowhere near the condition of mine), but he must have showered, as it appeared as clean and shiny as ever. He shifted away from the stove, turning slightly so I could see the pan in his hand. A flat griddle. I sniffed the air again, putting the sensory information together.

I swallowed. "Pancakes?" I asked, my voice nothing but a strained croak. I grabbed my throat, embarrassed at the harsh, guttural sound. Warren turned halfway around, still holding the pan. He raised one eyebrow at me, and I flushed.

I cleared my throat several times. "Sorry," I said, the words coming out a little easier, but still rough. "I guess I'm a little hoarse from screaming."

The very corner of his mouth turned up, and he resumed his work at the stove. "Understandable," he said, casual as ever.

"Yeah." I tried to peek around to see what he was doing, but the wide width of his wings blocked a good portion of the counter space. Was he cooking for himself, or both of us? It seemed presumptuous to assume he would make something for me, but oh, it smelled so good.

"Waffles," he finally said, and as he moved, I saw him deftly slide one thick, perfect-looking waffle onto a side plate already stacked high. "_And_ pancakes. I figured, why not? You have to splurge every once in awhile." He grabbed a large bowl from the side and poured the contents into an electric waffle maker, the mixture hissing as it began to set. "Do you have a preference? Or do you want both?"

"I... oh. Are you making them for me, too?" I asked. I felt a slight sting behind my eyes, then, and I was instantly embarrassed. He'd been so nice to me throughout this whole ordeal, a completely 180-degree turnaround from his attitude less than 24 hours ago. I didn't know how to take it.

He actually laughed, shaking his head. "No, Sera," he said, sarcasm thick. "I thought I'd gorge myself into oblivion on pancakes and waffles while you sat at the table and watched me, starving."

I smiled. "Do you need any help?"

He paused, silently surveying the counter. "You can get the syrup ready," he said. "But this will be done in just a minute or two."

"Okay." I slowly shuffled in the direction he pointed, taking careful steps on the shiny, smooth kitchen tiles. Warren stopped, putting the pan down and watching as I limped over to the counter.

"You look sore," he said, leaning against the counter. "Your legs are black and blue."

I looked over at him and instantly wished I hadn't. I'd thought that Jonathan had a pretty nice body, but Warren surpassed him to an almost embarrassing degree. He looked _unreal_ standing there, tanned and blonde and winged and bare-chested with the kind of muscle tone that would put Greek gods to shame. I'd known he was muscular; I'd seen him in his form-fitting 'flying' clothes, and I'd certainly felt the power in that body as he carried me through the skies, but sweet mother Mary... I had to look away, ashamed of my own preteen-like behavior.

"I am," I said. I held on to the counter, looking down at my bruises. My face flamed when I remembered what I was wearing – the short, snug shorts he'd handed to me last night, which I presumed had belonged to an old girlfriend. They were far too tight and completely unflattering on my thick thighs. I grabbed the hem, trying to pull the shorts a little lower to no avail. I was stuffed in it like a sausage casing, and the tiny bit of material had nowhere else to slide. I struggled to sound normal. "So, the syrup?"

"Cabinet to your left."

I reached in and pulled the bottle down. I'd expected Mrs. Butterworth's or Aunt Jemima, but of course a Worthington would have gone for something a little more high-end. I pulled out a large glass bottle shaped like a pitcher, filled with the thick, dark substance. It was probably pure molasses, freshly harvested from the tree, I mused.

"Here." I jumped at the close proximity of his voice. He had come up behind me and I hadn't even realized it. In one hand, he held a small plastic bottle with a white cap. I took it from his hand before realizing what it was – my painkillers. "I had it filled this morning. Figured you'd need it right away."

I rolled the bottle in my hand, reading the label with my name printed in capital letters. I didn't know one could fill a prescription for another person, but then again, I supposed the right amount of money would trump most any drugstore policy. When I looked back up at him, I struggled not to let me eyes fall below his neck. "Thanks," I said softly. "You didn't have to."

"Yeah. Because you look like you don't need it." Well, if nothing else, I was learning that I could always count on him to be sarcastic. I flipped the lid off and popped two pills in my mouth, swallowing them dry. There was a microwave hanging from one of the cabinets, an expensive-looking machine with at least twenty more buttons than my own at home, so I slid the syrup in and pressed Reheat. As I waited for the time to tick down, I surveyed the kitchen and the strange domesticity of it all.

As if my weekend couldn't get any stranger... Warren Worthington and I, sitting down at his kitchen table to enjoy a big buffet of pancakes and waffles. What would Randi say?

I grimaced. Randi. I was supposed to call her when I got home, I remembered... but obviously that hadn't happened, and my phone was DOA...

"What's wrong?" Warren was holding two plates piled high with the delicious breads. He examined the waffles first, then the pancakes. Then cocked his head to one side. "Let me guess. You're more of a crepes person."

The light joke was so easy, so charming in its own right, that I nearly forgot who I was talking to. Was this the real Warren, the one who had been bottled up – no, make that _bandaged_ up – all this time?

"No, no," I said. "I was supposed to call Randi last night when I got home to let her know I made it safely..." I laughed, though it fell flat. "Kind of forgot to do that. And I don't even know her number off-hand to call her on another phone."

"She'll be fine. Just tell her you forgot. And maybe leave out everything that happened between one and three in the morning." He walked over to the table, setting the plates down.

"Maybe. Or she might have called everyone in the tri-state area, looking for me." I hoped that wasn't the case, because I didn't know how I would explain myself. Lying would have been easy enough if I wasn't covered in bruises and scrapes. But I couldn't exactly tell her I made it home safe and sound with the contrary evidence all over my body. "Maybe my phone will work today..."

"I wouldn't count on it." Warren strolled to the refrigerator, a hulking stainless-steel box that was bigger than my bedroom closet. He pulled out a variety of toppings – some fresh blueberries, chopped-up strawberries, and whipped topping. The microwave dinged beside me, and he glanced up, nodding. "Ready to eat?"

I grabbed one of the hot pads from the counter and pulled out the steaming syrup. "Yeah," I said, walking to the table.

His dining table was pretty simple, matching the no-nonsense style of the kitchen. Glass top, rectangular in shape, maybe six feet by four feet. He sat down on one of the long ends, and I automatically went for the opposite side before realizing that I wouldn't be able to reach anything. So I sat next to him, hesitantly scooting my plate closer. He still had no shirt, which was distracting. But also kind of funny in a redneck sort of way – if not for the undeniable beauty and perfect coif, he could have been a stand-in for one of my more uncouth uncles at the dinner table.

Warren didn't even bat an eye before loading his own plate: three pancakes, two extra-thick waffles, and at least two full cups of fresh fruit strewn across the top. I watched, fascinated, as he began pouring an obscene amount of syrup all over the whole mess. He gave me a suspicious look as he set the pitcher down.

"What?" he asked defensively.

"That's... that's amazing. You can eat all that?"

"Are you kidding? This is just round one." He grabbed his knife and began cutting the cakes into little pieces. After a moment, he glanced up. "What are you waiting for? Eat, Sera."

I took one of each, carefully sprinkling some fruit on top and pouring what I felt was a modest amount of syrup on top. I'd thought I wouldn't be quite so hungry, considering the trauma I'd experienced, but one more thing was certain about Warren – he was one hell of a cook. One bite quickly became two, which quickly became three, which quickly led to an empty plate. I reached for more, licking my lips.

"See?" he said, taking another bite of waffle.

"They're really good," I admitted. "Really. This may be the best waffle I've ever eaten. What did you put in it?"

"Buttermilk instead of regular milk," he said, "and a little whole wheat flour instead of white. Oh, and ground-up pecans. Gives it a little more heft."

Well, no wonder it had tasted so good. "How do you eat like this and stay so..." I paused, trying to think of the appropriate way to word my thoughts. "Thin?"

He shrugged. "Beats me. I work out, but I guess these things must expend a lot of energy." His wings fluttered a little, shifting up and down.

"Oh. Yeah, I suppose so..." I took another bite, wondering how far he would let me question him. So far he had seemed pretty open, but I was afraid to get too close, lest he push me away again. It made me happier than it should have to be on speaking terms with him once more. I nibbled on the crisp edge of the waffle, contemplative.

He noticed my thoughtful pause and sighed. "Go ahead," he said. "I can tell you want to ask."

"When did they grow in?" I asked immediately, starting where we'd left off the previous night.

"My sixteenth birthday." He filled his plate again and dove into the starchy pile with gusto. Well, it looked like he was willing to give short answers, but I wasn't so sure he would elaborate.

I mentally calculated. He was nearing nineteen, so that was almost three years ago. Three years of hiding. Amazing. "What did you do?" I asked softly, thinking out loud. "I mean, after it happened. I mean, didn't anyone notice?"

"I moved into a single room at school and figured out how to hold them down."

"And no one thought that was... strange?"

"Of course they did." He crammed another bite in his mouth. "But as long as they left me alone, it didn't matter."

"How... well, when did you figure out you could... you know, fly?"

"I went to the cliff by Lake Shaw at night and threw myself off the top." He sounded so casual about it all, as if launching oneself into a cold, dark lake with no guarantee of survival was no sweat. "Kept doing it until the wind caught me and I figured out how to use 'em."

"Do..." I bit my lip, afraid I might be moving into negative territory. "Do your parents know? Is that why they're funding the cure?"

He stopped, fork in mid-air, jaw tight. Yikes, a sore subject. Understandably. "No," he finally said. "They don't know."

"They don't know?" I repeated.

"No. I've hidden them well."

"But... they're your _parents_," I said. "The people you have to live with until you're old enough to move out. How...?"

"Look," he said flatly. "I lived at school, full-time, until I was eighteen, then moved here. I'm rarely at their house overnight. I've just been really careful."

Boarding school, right... so he hadn't exactly grown up around his parents, a thought which saddened me. I didn't always get along with my mother, and my dad could be a stubborn old fool, but I loved the two of them, and they had always been there when I needed support. I had a million related questions for Warren: _Are you close to them? Do they suspect anything? Do you think they'd change their minds about funding the cure if they knew you were a mutant?_ But I held them back.

Instead, I asked, "Does anyone else... anyone besides me... know?"

He locked eyes with me. "No."

"Oh," I whispered. Again, I'd thought that sure there would be _someone_ out there who knew... a family member, physician, friend or past girlfriend... however, remembering the doctor's words last night – reminding Warren that he hadn't had a physical in years – I realized it made sense. He wasn't just alone, he was _isolated_, living high above the city in his family's _tres chic _penthouse suite, avoiding other people at all costs, even his own family...

With a sad, sinking feeling, I then understood that Warren Worthington led a much lonelier life than I had ever imagined.

"And _you_ shouldn't even know," he continued. "But I got careless. You shouldn't have been there that night. I shouldn't have let you come over."

I felt a little insulted at that, but I had to concede his point. If he'd been so dead-set on on keeping people out of his life, he wouldn't have allowed me into his home at any point. And apparently he'd managed it for nearly three years, so what exactly had _I_ done to get him to open that door?

"Well," I said, keeping my voice light. "I guess we'll have to make the best of it, right? It can't be all that bad. I mean... if you need anything, anything at all, I can try and help..." I wasn't sure what I could do for him, but surely someone as busy as Warren needed _something_.

He just snorted, shaking his head in his typical sulky fashion. "I've been doing this for years, Sera," he said coolly. "I don't need any help."

I twirled the fork in my hands, cautious with wording my thoughts. "You know, no man is an island," I said gently. "The philosopher John Donne famously said that human beings don't thrive when they're isolated."

"Yeah," he said, "Well, good thing I'm not human, huh?"

I sighed, stabbing another bite. Stubborn, so stubborn. "Well, at any rate, the offer stands," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. I kept my eyes focused on my plate. Just when I thought things were lightening up...

We ate in silence for several minutes. Well, Warren didn't so much eat as _inhale_ his food, knocking back the pancakes with impressive fortitude. When I'd first seen the huge stacks he'd made, I'd assumed we would have plenty of leftovers, but that was apparently not the case. There were only two pancakes left, and I pointed to them questioningly. He nodded, so I tossed them on my plate to finish everything off.

"But... yeah," he said suddenly, leaning back in his chair. It was unnerving, having him watching me eat, but the cakes were so good I didn't really care. I looked up, confused. He darted his eyes around the room. "Sorry. I know you mean well."

It amused me that he was acting like a parent talking to a disappointed child, trying to smooth over any ruffled emotions. Especially considering the disparity in our ages. I just shrugged. "I generally do."

He smiled, gentle this time, and genuine. "I know." He cleared his throat. "Anything else?"

It took a moment for me to realize he was clearing me for more questions. I finished off my breakfast and carefully set the fork across the top of the plate.

"Well," I said. "There is something I really wanted to know."

His eyes narrowed at my playful tone. "What?"

I smiled, wistful. "What does it feel like? What's it like to be able to fly high above the city?"

He grinned, the action lighting up his face in a way I'd never seen. For that moment, he looked young, carefree, and happy, like the handsome young man he was expected to be. I wanted to see him smile like that _all_ the time, to let go of all the heavy burdens he bore every once and just enjoy his young life while he had it.

"That," he said. "I can definitely answer."

**xxxxx**

We sat at the table for hours after we'd finished eating, me peppering him with questions while he gave his usual mild answers. I didn't want to focus completely on his mutation, so I asked him anything I could think of in an attempt to keep him talkative and friendly: Where did you grow up? What was boarding school like? What kind of music do you listen to? What's the last book you read?

His answers often surprised me. Hearing that he preferred Black Flag and The Ramones didn't astound me, but learning that he enjoyed John Updike did. He'd been a star athlete at one time, also not shocking, but had taken cello lessons for many years when he was younger, which _was_. Though he often came across as arrogant in conversation to others – as Jonathan had been all too happy to point out – I started to realize that he was fairly self-deprecating and maybe even a little humbled by his mutation. The cold, apathetic asshole was merely a front, a way to keep others from getting too close. And it had worked like a charm for nearly three years.

When we finally hit a lull in conversation, I stood up and began clearing the table, feeling the need to avoid any awkward silences. As he loaded the dishwasher, I wandered back into the den, unsure what came next. He didn't seem to be too bothered by my presence anymore, like he'd just given up and accepted that I would have to be in his life somehow. But I felt like I'd overstayed my welcome, that any minute I would say something else to set him off and he'd boot me out the door. I wasn't sure of the time, but it was definitely afternoon. And I couldn't stop worrying about either Randi or Jonathan trying to call me and repeatedly getting no answer.

I wandered around the room, inspecting the décor more closely. The apartment was gorgeous, true, but both times I'd been here I'd felt it was missing something. And as I looked around, I realized what it was – there were no personal pictures anywhere in sight. No old-fashioned, waxy-faced family portraits, no yearbook-style photos on a dull blue background, no informal snapshots with friends, nothing. The entire place was beautiful to look at, but cold and uninviting. Much like Warren himself.

_Much like he __**was**_, I corrected myself. _But maybe I can fix that... _

I leaned over to inspect one large glass-encased candle on a side table. The three wicks inside were blackened, the wax perfectly concaved around each. It had been burned before. I inhaled deeply, trying to place the scent. Something fruity, but not tart. Apple, maybe with a hint of cinnamon?

"Mom gets those by the dozen." Warren had walked in the room, hands in his pockets. "They last forever."

"Yeah. It smells good." I straightened up, mentally groaning as the shorts rode up my thighs. I fidgeted and pulled at the fabric, fully aware that Warren was fighting back smug laughter across the room.

"Not your size?" He was amused by my predicament, and I scowled, holding on to the hems with both hands.

"Nowhere close," I said. "Whose were these? Your ten-year-old sister's?" I tried to crack a joke, knowing full well that he was an only child, but regretted it when I saw his face fall for a fraction of a second.

_Definitely an old girlfriend_, I thought. Then I had to wonder – had he been dating her when the wings grew in? I'd gotten the impression he'd abruptly cut off all ties in his life at that time, so that would have to include a girlfriend if applicable... I wondered what she'd been like. Tiny, that much I knew. Figures.

In the next instant, his crestfallen face was gone, and he resumed the sarcasm again. "What makes you think they're not mine? I happen to like stripes."

"Right," I said. "And pink is really your color, too." He chuckled at that, folding his arms over his bare chest. I looked down at the shorts again, chagrined. "So... I don't want to sound demanding, but do you have anything else I could put on?"

"Why?" he asked, that smug grin never leaving his face. He was really getting a kick out of my awkward wardrobe malfunctions, and for some reason, that was... comforting. It was something any guy friend of mine, including Dylan, would rib me about. Made him seem almost normal.

I pointed to the door. "I can't leave here wearing these," I said. "It's too cold outside, not to mention I look... atrocious."

"Atrocious?" he repeated. "How so?"

"Just... do you have anything else? Anything at all? I promise I'll bring it back." At this point, I would have gladly accepted a towel to wrap around my waist. He just held up one finger, disappearing through the hall. His wings folded back when he walked, staying safely out of the way, and I again wondered if that was a conscious or subconscious behavior. Had he learned to do that, to keep them from knocking things over? Or was it pure instinct? I was completely fascinated...

I heard his footsteps retreating up the stairs, so I settled onto the couch. I picked up my dirty, half-shredded clothes from the table, frowning. I'd worn my favorite clubbing outfit out with Randi – the pale blue silk halter with the sapphire pendant in the front, and my flouncy denim skirt, the one that swished and swayed when I moved and flattered my bottom-heavy shape... and now it was ruined. Of course, I knew clothes were replaceable and my life certainly wasn't, but it was definitely a bummer. At least I still had my boots, which were a little waterlogged but wearable. I hadn't worn a jacket, because I hadn't anticipated being outside for more than a few seconds at a time.

Warren strolled back into the room several minutes later, his arms full. "This is the best I have," he said, "so unless you can get over your fear of those shorts, it'll have to do." He tossed the clothes into my lap, and I held them up for inspection.

The first was an old, soft hooded navy sweatshirt with ALLEN COTTSEN ACADEMY emblazoned across the front in white block letters. I slid it over my head, immediately loving the way the fuzzy fleece lining warmed my skin. He'd also found a pair of striped black track pants. I pulled them on over the shorts. Loose and just a little too long – though we were the same height, Warren apparently had longer legs – but they would do.

After pulling on my still-damp boots, I stood up, tightening the waistband and pulling the sweatshirt down. "Much better," I said, noting that the heavy clothing also concealed my cuts and bruises. I reached up, combing the sides of my hair down to hide the knot on my head. "Thanks."

"They're enormous," he said. "You look like you're shrinking."

"Fine with me. Better too loose than too tight."

He rolled his eyes at that, but didn't argue. I collected my ruined clothes, folding them neatly in a stack small enough to carry. Picking up my phone, I pressed the 'ON' button to see if it had made a miraculous recovery during the night. The screen stayed blank – no such luck. "Great," I muttered. "Another thing I'll have to replace..."

"Are you leaving?"

I shoved the phone into the sweatshirt's big pocket. The question, and his intent behind asking it, were unreadable. He didn't sound disappointed, nor did he sound eager, and I couldn't tell how I should answer. Didn't he want me to leave, being such a private person? Or did he want company a little while longer?

"I guess so," I finally said. "I know you've probably got a lot to do, so... I'll get out of your hair. Stop bumming off of you." I smiled.

He actually snorted at that, but didn't elaborate. "How are you getting home?" he asked.

"I figured I'd take the train," I said. It would be the cheapest way, if not the easiest.

Then I paused. Where was my money?

The skirt had only one pocket, which was empty, and the shirt obviously didn't have any... Dimly, I remembered packing some cash and my ID into a tiny clutch... I'd carried it on a wrist strap all night, since the skirt pocket was only big enough to hold my phone... I closed my eyes, my face reddening.

"My purse is gone," I mumbled. "I must have lost it." I groaned, holding my head with both hands. "Could I borrow a few dollars to get home?"

He practically guffawed, which annoyed me. Maybe losing twenty dollars wasn't a big deal to _him_, but it was to those of us who lived paycheck to paycheck. "What did you just say about not bumming anymore?"

"I'll pay you back! I just, I don't know, I must have dropped it at some point. Or maybe it's in the river, I don't know. If you don't--"

"Sera, Sera," he said, interrupting me. "I'm kidding. I need to go downtown anyway. I'll take you home."

I stared down at my boots – dark brown leather, which looked a little ridiculous with the black track pants he'd given me. I let my hair fall forward so he couldn't see my face. Why was he doing this? Clamming up one minute, making snide remarks the next, then offering to do me sweet favors?

"Okay?" he said. "Let me go get dressed."

"Okay," I said softly.

He changed with remarkable speed, considering all the preparation he had to put into the process. When he trotted back down the stairs a few minutes later, he was dressed in typical Warren attire – the same low-slung jeans, beat-up sneakers, and a faded t-shirt. No sign of majestic wings in sight – unbelievable. He walked to the front foyer and perused the coats, picking the heavy trench.

Running one hand through his smooth blonde curls, he turned to me. "You ready?"

"Sure."

I followed him into the hall, hugging my clothes to my chest. The hallway down to the elevator was glass on one side, affording a breathtaking view of the city's south side. It reminded me of the time I'd gone to the Sears Tower in Chicago on our senior class trip. We'd walked all along the outer glass walls of the viewing deck, marveling at the tiny buildings and the way the clouds cast dark shadows on the land...

"Beautiful view," I murmured.

Warren followed my gaze. "Yeah," he said. "It really is."

He pushed the down button when we got to the elevator. From my one experience riding in it, I remembered it being fast, but when it dinged only a few seconds after he'd called it, he frowned.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"That was awfully quick," he muttered. The doors began to open. "Usually it takes--"

And then Warren's mother stepped out and into the hallway.

Mothers are strange creatures. I've known a variety of mothers over the years, as all my friends were born to unique women. My friend Samantha had a smotherer, who called her daughter approximately once an hour to check up on her whereabouts – even long after Sam had passed 18. Judy's mother was a professor at WVU, strict and humorless, but the sharpest, most self-possessed woman I knew. Randi and Dylan's mother was a semi-reformed hippie and the type of mother who refused to abide by standard parenting rules when it came to raising her children (which explained a lot, actually). My own mother had been the homemaker of the group, a plain, unassuming type who always created made-from-scratch meals and freshly baked goods that made my friends jealous.

Katherine Worthington, however, was a breed I'd had yet to study – the successful, high-society wife.

I recognized her. Not from any personal pictures in Warren's apartment, but from the many times she and her husband had been featured in newspapers and magazines, always attending some fundraiser or important dinner meeting or announcing the latest developments at Worthington Industries. And the resemblance between the two of them was undeniable – he was simply a younger, stronger, more masculine version of her. As she swept into the hall, all I could think was _oh, I see where Warren gets his good looks from..._

"Warren!" she exclaimed, her voice slightly husky, the vocal chords a little rough from years of enjoying fine wine, no doubt. Her hair, a graying blonde, was pulled back in a simple ponytail, and she was dressed plainly in dark trousers and a blouse. Yet she didn't look dowdy, as many women her age would. She just looked... classic. And natural, unlike most women of her age and stature. "I'm so glad I caught you." She gave her shocked son a quick hug and kissed his cheek.

And then apparently noticed that he wasn't alone.

I clasped my hands together and attempted a benign smile. Warren, for his part, looked absolutely _horrified_, as if he was witnessing an atrocity: a brutal murder or train wreck, something of that caliber. His cheeks tinged a bright red, the first time I could ever remember seeing him so flustered. Mrs. Worthington stepped back, cocking her head to the side as she studied me.

Her eyes scanned me over, and when she finally met my eyes again, her expression was one of... what, exactly? Not approval, but not disapproval, either. More like... relief. I blinked, not believing it. I looked like a disgrace, unkempt and frumpy and certainly not anywhere near her son's league. She turned to Warren, shaking her head at him in a disarming fashion.

"Warren, honey," she chided. "Aren't you doing to introduce me?"

"Mom," he started in, his normally tanned face flushing further. He ran one hand through his hair, his fingers tightening in the strands. Warren Worthington, speechless and ruffled for once – and all it took was a surprise visit from his mother. I had to smile.

"I'm Sera," I said, eager to try and at least be polite.

"Sera," she repeated, and then her face lit up. With _recognition_. I stared at her, flabbergasted. "Sera! Yes! Oh, Warren has talked about you quite a bit..." She glanced to her son, who'd developed a frozen, stricken expression of pure dismay. I was about to correct her in some way – surely I wasn't the Sera he talked about; it was a fairly common name, especially with all the spelling variations – but she continued. "You met in class, right? And you worked on that huge group project with him."

I turned to stare hard at her son, who suddenly decided his feet were the most fascinating objects in the room. _Just what have you been saying about me, Warren? To your mother, no less? _

"Yes," I said, smiling and trying to remain composed. "Yes, that's me."

"Good to finally meet you," she said. "I know Warren here can be so secretive about his... _friends_."

She added an impish lilt to the last word, certainly not leaving any doubt to her context. When I finally put the pieces together, I felt my face turning scarlet, probably matching Warren's. Of course. Not only had Warren apparently spoken of me in some capacity, but now I was leaving his apartment, in the _morning_, after clearly having spent the night. Dressed in clothes that were obviously his, to boot. Best case scenario, she thought we were dating; worst case, I was just some slutty gold-digging classmate he'd shacked up with for the night.

"Mom," Warren said sharply. "What are you doing here?"

"I had to come down to speak with Mr. Lang, and since I was already in the area, I thought I'd stop by and see if you were here," she said. "I was thinking lunch, if you'd like."

He fidgeted, shoving his hands in the pocket of his jeans. "Awww... you should have called beforehand Mom, because now I have to take Sera, um, home... so..."

She turned to smile, still smiling. "Oh, that's no problem, Warren. She can come with us."

He nearly choked. I found myself speechless, yet again. Definitely dating. She thought we were together. Before either of us could protest, she continued. "You're not busy, are you, Sera? It will only take a bit, anyway, and I won't keep the two of you very long. I have some business to attend to shortly, as well."

"I... I..." I stuttered, unable to come up with a viable excuse not to go. Granted, we'd eaten breakfast two hours ago and I wasn't really hungry, but I thought that might sound rude. I coughed, trying to stall. I wasn't prepared for this sort of thing! "I mean... well, no..." Warren was going to kill me.

"Perfect! I was thinking Thai Smile. It's just down the block, so we can walk there," she said merrily. "I assume the two of you are ready to go now?"

He still wasn't speaking. I wondered, for a moment, if he'd actually gone into medical shock.

"Sounds good," I added weakly. "I love Thai food..."

"Oh, me too, Sera," she said, her voice warm as the two of us dragged behind her on the elevator. "And this place has the most divine khao soi. Have you ever had it?"

"I love khao soi!" I said. "I almost always order that when we go out, either that or pad thai." Too late, I realized that by the hopeful look in her eye that she probably equated the 'we' to mean Warren and I, and not Jonathan and me. Great. I just kept making things worse.

Oh, Warren was _really_ going to kill me.

**xxxxx**

I'd never had much trouble impressing parents. I considered myself a pretty level-headed person, intelligent, hard-working, well-mannered, and appropriately social. I had no particular secrets to hide. My friends' parents welcomed me into their homes with no qualms about whether I'd lead their kids astray. Nick's parents had adored me, showering me with attention and gifts the entire time we dated. I'd hated losing them when he and I broke it off, but keeping in contact with them had just been awkward.

Yet when I realized Katherine Worthington was warming to me, it was a little shocking. I'd assumed she would snobby, picky, ready to find the flaws in any girl who dared to keep company with her son. After all, he was deemed one of the most eligible bachelors in the city – if not even the country – so he would theoretically have his pick of the litter. He could date the head of the class at MIT, or a beautiful swimsuit supermodel, or even foreign _royalty_, if he wished. I was obviously none of the three and nowhere in the vicinity of their drawing power. I was just a regular girl, no different than the millions that teemed the streets of America every day.

But then again, maybe that was just what was working in my favor.

"So, you grew up in West Virginia?" his mother asked, taking a sip of her hot tea. "Oh, it's a beautiful state. The mountains are simply breathtaking! Ken and I spent two weeks skiing at Snowshoe a few years back. It was lovely, so relaxing. Have you been there?"

"Yes, once," I said. Nick and I had taken a weekend trip cross-state to Snowshoe, as well. To ski, among other things... "With a friend," I finished. "Although I was, um, quite sore from it afterward."

"Oh, us too. You don't realize how many muscles you have until you've been skiing! We took Warren here to Colorado when he was... oh, how old were you, honey? Fourteen, maybe? I think you'd just started high school..."

"Yeah. Fourteen." Warren slumped in his chair, staring at his empty plate. He'd essentially given up – once Mrs. Worthington made it clear that we were going to have this lunch and enjoy it, he'd stopped arguing. It amused me, actually, to see such a facetious, strong-willed person reduced to meekness so easily. As we'd walked behind her on the sidewalk to Thai Smile, he'd given me the most pleading, beseeching expression, and I'd understood, to a point. Smile. Play along. But try not to say too much.

"Yes. Well, Warren here kept wanting to try the advanced hills, even though we told him he wasn't quite ready," she said. "He snuck over to the Black Diamond slope, and the next thing we knew, we heard this outrageous scream. He was coming down the mountain at breakneck speed. I thought he was done for..." She shook her head at the memory. I tried to imagine Warren recklessly throwing himself down a slope far too advanced for his skill, and found the image easy to come by. Sounded like him, actually.

"I was fine," Warren grumbled.

"You fell!" his mother exclaimed. "And tumbled for the last hundred feet!"

He shrugged. "And I was fine," he repeated. "Just a little sore the next day."

She shuddered, finishing off her tea. "Oh, it was awful. My heart simply stopped." She tilted her head and gave him a warm, loving smile. "But you were lucky, you barely had a scratch. You've always been so lucky when it comes to your health, Warren. Never a broken bone, or stitches, nothing. Why..." she paused, thinking. "You never even had chicken pox or strep throat."

I coughed, choking a little on the ice water I'd ordered. Warren's face was perfectly flat, expressionless, but I knew he was simmering on the inside. Lucky? Depends on whose perspective you used.

"Yeah," he said. "Lucky."

I wanted to reach over and touch him – give him a reassuring squeeze, a pat on the arm, anything. Just something to let him know that I understood. That for once, he wasn't alone.

But I kept my distance, knowing he wouldn't appreciate the gesture, not now. And especially not in front of his mother.

"So," Mrs. Worthington said, easily switching subjects. "Do you like swing music, Sera?"

I shot a quick glance at Warren, who seemed just as confused by the question. "Um, yeah. I can't say I can dance very well to it, but I enjoy it," I said. I'd always wanted to take swing dancing lessons, and had almost had Nick talked into it at one point.

"You know," Mrs. Worthington started, her voice once again taking on that strange lilt. "The Miller-Davis gala is next weekend. I know your father expects to see you there, honey."

"Yeah," Warren mumbled. "I know."

"And, of course, it's perfectly acceptable to bring a date. They've booked this band, Swing Shift, who are supposed to be quite good, so it should be pretty lively."

I blinked rapidly, feeling yet another furious flush take over my face. I didn't know where to look – at her, at Warren, off into space, or down at my plate? Which direction would allow me to not be involved in the conversation without coming across as impertinent?

Warren, meanwhile, stared back at his mother, mouth slightly agape. He didn't say anything, too shocked again to come up with a decent sarcastic remark to diffuse the situation.

"Sera, you should come!" she said brightly, determined to make the moment happen despite her two willfully silent subjects. "Warren could use the company, I know. And," she added with a sly smile, "those poor girls you keep ignoring will finally understand _why_ you're ignoring them, Warren."

"Um, wow," I said. "I, um... I don't know..." I racked my brain, trying to remember what I had planned for next Saturday. I could say I had to work, but she would probably pressure me into asking for a different shift. I could say I was busy, but that might sound like another date, which would lend credence to the 'slutty' stigma.

"We would love to have you there, Sera," she said. She was a persistent one, I had to give her that. Probably a skill she'd learned through years of business practice.

"She'll be out of town," Warren suddenly interrupted. "That's the weekend that you're... going home. Right? The weekend of the 23rd?"

My mouth felt dry. I hated lying. "Oh, yeah," I said slowly. "Yeah, that's right. I have to, um, go home. To Morgantown. My dad's birthday. I nearly forgot." I gave a weak laugh, hoping it wasn't too transparent. "Oh, which reminds me, I better be finding him a present soon!"

Her face fell instantly, and I actually felt _bad_. Warren was looking straightforward, unaffected, pretending not to notice the disappointment etched all over his mother's features. She'd been so excited to meet me. And why not? If her son had become such a recluse, it was probably a great relief and weight off her chest to see him making a friend... or girlfriend, or whatever role I was supposed to be playing.

She sighed and smiled, a little sadly. "Next time," she added, cheerful and optimistic as ever. "There's always something new going on."

"Yeah," I said helpfully, trying both to reassure her and yet not push things too far. Warren cleared his throat.

"Mom," he said. "I hate to eat and run, but we really have to go."

"Oh, right. I suppose we've been sitting here awhile." She beckoned for us to stand up. "Go on, you two. I'll take care of the check."

Warren and I rose from our chairs, and I slid mine under the table, still feeling incredibly guilty. "Thank you for lunch," I said. "It was really good."

"Oh, you're welcome, Sera." She reached over, clasped my hand and squeezed, not in a handshake, but affectionately, the way my mother greeted relatives she hadn't seen in awhile. "I do hope to talk to you again soon."

"Me too," I murmured, watching as she stood up to hug her son goodbye. She kissed him on the cheek and smoothed back his hair, smiling brightly up at him.

"Don't study too hard. Be careful driving. And you two have fun." She squeezed his shoulder. "And call me later, Warren, okay?"

"Sure," he said, throwing me a look. I knew what he was getting at – she was likely going to grill him for details later, and he wasn't looking forward to it.

We said our goodbyes, then Warren and I walked swiftly down the sidewalk back to the penthouse. He was completely silent on the way there, his hands stuffed into the pocket of his coat and unblinking eyes focused straight ahead. We didn't speak until we reached his car, a hot little black Spyder that looked like it came straight out of a James Bond movie.

He unlocked the doors, throwing himself inside, and I followed, though much more carefully. I looked around, appraising the inside. Leather seats, satellite radio, built-in GPS. Nice, but what else had I expected?

"So," I said, clicking the seatbelt into place. "Your mother seems, um, very nice."

He jammed the key into the ignition but didn't turn it. Looking down at his lap, he shook his head. "Sorry," he mumbled. "Sorry you had to go through that. She usually doesn't show up unannounced."

"It was fine," I said. "Right? I enjoyed myself. It was just a nice lunch. No big deal."

He smiled, grim. "Yeah. No big deal. For you, maybe." He turned on the car and began backing out. We were on the very top level of the parking structure, in a private garage reserved especially for Warren's vehicles. I was surprised to see that the Spyder was his only car, as I'd expected him to own a small fleet, like so many others in the millionaire club tended to do.

I chose not to respond to that, instead direction the conversation towards a burning question I'd had during the entire lunch. "Just what did you say about me, Warren?" I asked casually. I looked over at him, unable to keep from smirking.

His face flamed again. "Nothing," he snapped. "Nothing."

"Right," I said slowly. "_Nothing_."

"Look, I don't... I don't have many friends... or _any_, for that matter. So they've always been on my case about it, especially Mom. And I mentioned once that... that I was meeting you guys for the project thing, and when I told her one of the group members was a girl, she latched onto that," he said. "And she kept asking questions, and... well, whatever. Then one of her friends saw you and me at the coffee shop one day. So, she was convinced there was something going on."

"And now she's seen me coming from your apartment, dressed in your clothes, after a long night out," I finished.

He took a deep breath, taking the ramp down to the bottom level at a speed that made me a little nervous. "Yeah."

"Well... I mean, it could be worse, right?" I asked. "Won't this get your parents off your back for awhile?"

We reached the exit, and he pulled the Spyder out into the street, heading away from the Tower. "No," he said glumly. "If anything, it'll be worse. She'll be asking about you all the time now. Wanting to hear about you. Wanting you to meet Dad. Wanting you to come to the house for dinner."

_And you don't want me to come._ The thought struck me as odd, and a little painful, if I forced myself to be honest. Why would that bother me? We certainly _weren't_ dating, and I had Jonathan, for that matter, so it wasn't like I was the lonely one here. Not to mention it was wrong of me to even contemplate what having dinner with Warren's parents would be like...

"Oh," I said softly. "Well... sorry."

"It's not your fault." We were stopped at a red light, and he rubbed his eyes, clearly still distressed. "I shouldn't have--" He stopped himself, and I felt my throat tighten up. He'd already said once that he never should have let me in, so how many times did he have to reiterate? Wasn't he happy at all to have me on his side?

"Shouldn't have what? Saved me?" I asked, trying to keep my voice even. "Flown me to your place? Made me breakfast? Offered to take me home?"

"No!" he said immediately. "No, that's not... that's not what I meant." He rested his head against the steering wheel, and I stared at his back, noticing the subtle way his shirt hunched up when he leaned forward like that. How uncomfortable it must have been, to sit in a cramped car with those giant appendages strapped so tightly to his back.

"Well, you wish you hadn't gotten involved with me." I laced my fingers together in my lap. "You said that earlier."

"I know... but..." The light turned green, and he stomped on the gas. "I don't know what I'm saying, Sera. I didn't mean that. Just forget it."

I was thrown back in the seat a little bit from the force of his acceleration. He was so _frustrating_, his emotions wavering back and forth like a leaf trembling in the wind. All I wanted was to just be his friend, to help him in whatever way I could, but he insisted on making things so much harder than they actually were.

We didn't say anything for the rest of the ride, aside from me quietly giving him turn-by-turn directions to my street. When we reached my apartment building, he pulled over on the street, looking up at the old brick building. It was a far cry from the opulence of Worthington Tower, but I refused to feel ashamed about it.

"This it?" His words were soft and muffled.

"Yeah," I muttered, fumbling with the seat belt buckle. "Home sweet home. Third floor, 3F. The stairs should be fun to climb." The painkillers had certainly helped, but the stiffness in my muscles wasn't going away anytime soon.

He didn't say anything, and I grabbed the door handle, starting to pull, but then stopped. I felt the need to get in the last word.

"Just for the record," I said quietly. "I meant what _I_ said. And you're wrong. You have at least _one_ friend, if you're willing to let me be that. And I may not be able to help much, but I can always listen. You have my number. All you have to do is call." Then I laughed dryly, reaching in the sweatshirt pocket and squeezing the dead phone in my hand. "Well, after I figure out how I'm going to get a new phone, that is."

I swallowed, clearing my throat, completely embarrassed at my heartfelt speech. "Right. So... I guess I'll see you later. Thanks for the ride. And thanks... for everything else."

Without looking at him – I couldn't bring myself to meet those icy blue eyes again – I quickly opened the door and hopped out, slamming it behind me. As I walked towards the apartment building, I prayed that my spare key was still safely hidden in the fern I'd hung outside my door. I really didn't feel like hunting down my landlord and explaining to him that I needed another copy... he would want to change the locks, and I'd be charged for that, another expense I didn't need right now...

"Sera." I thought I was imagining things, so I kept walking. But when I heard my name a second time, I turned back to the car. Warren had pulled the car further up and the window was rolled down. He was leaning forward, peeking out at me.

"Yeah?" I shoved my hands in the front pocket of the sweatshirt.

Normally, Warren's eyes were narrow, his lips tight; he always looked either a little sour, like someone turning up their nose at a subpar meal, or he looked completely stressed out, as he had for the past hour and half with his mother. But as he met my eyes, his expression softened, all the hard, angry lines disappearing.

"Thanks," he said, and I struggled to hear his muffled voice from inside the car. "That... that means a lot. And..." he swallowed visibly. "I may take you up on that sometime."

I shrugged, suspecting that would never come to pass. "I hope so," I said. He nodded, throwing up a small wave and then the car sped off. I turned, walking slowly back to my apartment.

**xxxxx**

The following week, Jonathan and I were in my apartment, wasting away the rest of our Friday after a particularly hard week of classes – he'd had three midterms, I'd had two _plus_ a fifteen-page paper detailing the Stock Market Crash of 1929 due. I had no idea how I'd managed to make it through the past five days successfully after the strange, stressful weekend I'd had. Many of the scratches had healed and my bruises were finally fading, but I knew the memory of that night would be sharply embedded in my mind for a long, long time to come.

Jonathan rolled over on the couch, his body pressed close to mine, our arms intertwined around one another. Just relaxing. Resting. Recovering. I rested my head in the nook of his neck, breathing in the subtle scent of his cologne – Armani, given to him by his sister for Christmas. Neither of us spoke, unwilling to break the comforting silence of the room.

It was nice, I thought, to have someone there to just hold you when you were feeling not-so-hot. I'd always taken such things for granted – even discounting boyfriends, I'd had enough good girlfriends in my life who were willing to be there for me. To comfort me when I'd bombed an important test, to pick up the pieces after a bad fight with Nick, to listen to me complain about all the unpaid overtime teachers were forced to endure on their paltry salaries. So it bothered me to think about people who didn't have that outlet. People who were alone, like Warren, whether by some cruel twist of fate or even of their own accord. Donne was right – how could one live without companionship?

Jonathan shifted again, his breathing slow and steady against my cheek. Moments later, I felt his lips pressing against my neck, starting a trail of firm, purposeful kisses up the slope and to my jaw. He reached my mouth, and I kissed him back, pulling him just a little closer as we squirmed on the couch.

He slid his hands lower, firmly grabbing my hips and pulling me closer. It didn't take long for things to escalate – he made short work of my shirt, lifting it up and over before tossing it in the floor, grinning all the while. I just laughed, squealing a little as he took his kisses down my chest and to my stomach, tickling me with the fuzzy hair of his goatee as he went. He was always so eager, intent on figuring out just where I liked to be touched, where I liked to be kissed, how I liked to make love...

He reached for my jeans, tugging on the buttons, and my eyes snapped open. My bruises may have been fading, but there were still _very_ visible: a horrible, dark garish green surrounded by a yellowing outline. I'd been hiding them for the past week under jeans and long pajama bottoms, hoping to keep him at bay until they were gone. I truly hated to lie, and I'd been unable to think of a plausible reason for my injuries, so as Warren had suggested, I'd conveniently left out everything that had happened after Randi put me in the cab that night: nothing happened, I made it home and fell right asleep. My phone, I had explained, had been dropped in some water, which I felt was true enough.

I gently grabbed his wrist, stopping him. "Not so fast," I teased, hoping I sounded casual. "I'm not, ah, feeling up to it... not right now."

He kissed just below my belly button, chuckling. "Sex is a great stress reliever, you know," he murmured. "I guarantee you'll feel better afterwards..."

Regardless of the fact that he was probably right, I resisted. "I just... I really need to rest." I bit my lip, studying his half-lidded eyes and wanting lips. He would not be easy to convince, not with his desire plainly written all over his face.

He crawled up, bringing his kisses back to my face. "I'll make it worth your while," he breathed in my ear. "And then we can just lie here and relax, or sleep, for the rest of the afternoon..."

I closed my eyes, swallowing. He was a good kisser, and his soft lips and clever tongue were doing a _much_ better job of swaying me than his words...

The doorbell rang.

_Saved!_

He sat up abruptly, cheeks flushed. "Who is that?" he asked, alarmed.

"I have no idea..." I sat up, snatching my shirt from the floor and pulling it overhead. Jonathan gave me a mournful look, and I just laughed, giving him a quick kiss. I combed through my messy hair and walked over to the foyer.

I opened the door. "Hey," said a bored-looking man in a dark brown UPS uniform. "I have a package for you. Can you sign here?" He held out his electronic pad.

"What? I didn't order anything," I said.

"You Sera Slone?" he asked. I nodded. "Then it's yours." He handed me a small, compact package secured with mailing tape, roughly the size of a cereal box. I peeked at the label – sure enough, my name and address, but no return. I frowned.

"Have a good day," the man said, and swiftly disappeared down the hall. I let the door shut behind me as I walked into the kitchen, setting the box down.

"What is it?" Jonathan asked.

"Beats me... I haven't ordered anything, and I wasn't expecting a package from anyone..." I grabbed a pair of scissors and sliced through the tape. "Maybe it's anthrax," I said jokingly.

"Not funny," he said, actually looking a little worried.

I reached in the outer box and pulled out a smaller box, setting it on the counter. The two of us stared at it, confused.

"It's a phone," he said. "A _Blackberry_."

"Blackberry Storm, actually," I replied, staring down at the brightly designed package. I pointed to the header on the box and shook my head. "What in the world? I seriously did not order this."

"Maybe it was sent to you by accident?" he suggested. "Have you looked at these phones, like maybe on the website? Do they have your information?"

"No... they're way out of my price range. I didn't even bother." I picked up the phone box, noticing that the end had been opened. Curious, I tugged on the flap and pulled out the contents. Phone, charger, manual, warranty card... there was no battery, I noticed, but when I pulled off the back of the phone, I saw the battery was already inside. Had it been used?

"This thing is _nice_," Jonathan said, whistling as he picked up the manual.

"I know..." I pressed the ON button, watching as the screen lit up. It had to be someone else's phone, if the battery had already been charged and installed. I wondered if there were any numbers in the directory. Maybe I could call one and figure out whose it was supposed to be...

The phone beeped merrily, startling me. Jonathan looked up from the manual, grinning. "Sounds like a text."

Sure enough, the message icon had a little star next to it. "Should I read it?"

"Of course!"

I pressed the button, waiting for the screen to load. There was no subject, and instead of a name in the sender column, there was only a number: 564-8874, and the time sent, which was only a few hours earlier in the day. I squinted. Why did the number look familiar? My curiosity piqued, I clicked on the message to open it.

**Hope you enjoy the phone. Figured you could use one ASAP. Didn't know what kind you preferred but this seemed like a good one. **

**I need to talk to you. Meet me for lunch on Monday? Noon or shortly after at Cafe Eva?**

**-W**

My mouth went dry.

"What did they say?" Jonathan asked. "Can you tell who it's from?"

I stared down at the short message, feeling strangely giddy. And then promptly _ashamed_ of being giddy. Warren had bought me a new phone, Sweet Jehovah. And suddenly wanted to meet me for lunch on Monday. What was going on?

"Sera?" Jonathan asked.

I looked over at him, gathering my composure. "You'll never believe it," I said, hating every false word that came out of my mouth. "My parents bought me this phone and had it sent here. I'd been wanting a new one, but I guess hearing that my old one bit it last week made them feel sorry enough for me to get it." I laughed softly. "Crazy, huh?"

"Sweet!" he exclaimed. "That was really nice of them, wow. Wish my parents were more generous. What a cool surprise."

I swallowed, sliding my thumb to the DELETE button and pressing down. "Yeah," I said, mentally penciling in my new appointment for Monday. "It certainly is."


End file.
